


Threadbare

by Depths



Category: One Piece
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Transformation, Canon-Typical Violence, Dehumanization, Depression, Dissociation, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Major Character Injury, Memory Loss, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Non-Sexual Slavery, Pre-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Rehabilitation, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Touch-Starved, mentions of slavery only, not actually That dark i think, one piece big bang 2019/2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24423733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Depths/pseuds/Depths
Summary: Marco would never understand why humans would want immortality.There was little point to a life spent alone and constantly running.
Relationships: Diamond Jozu & Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco, Fuschichou Marco | Phoenix Marco & Whitebeard Pirates, Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco & Shirohige | Whitebeard | Edward Newgate, Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco & Thatch, Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco & Vista
Comments: 46
Kudos: 228
Collections: One Piece Big Bang 2019/2020





	1. Voyagers

**Author's Note:**

> (insert sweating emoji)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A birds eyes view introduces some new parts to a world.

There were plenty of unexplained things in the world. Plenty of unknowns and undiscovered. Hundreds to millions of variations of a single species, lost and evolved and found over and over– each time as if the first. Humans alone that were so biologically distant as to be a completely different branch of the same people. Fish-men, merfolk, sky islanders, tontattas, giants, minks. Phoenixes. 

As far as it was aware, it had been in this form. Blue and flickering. Born air-born and aloft, unable to recall before the sky. Just another species, flying and flying as years passed farther and farther from its notice. Soaring just over the cloud layer. (It had learned his lesson, over a century ago, when its feathers refused to blend into a darkening sky and those thousands of peoples’ below the cloud layer tried to pull it down and _keep_ it. 

It was not meant to be kept. Nothing about it was– not the years, not its friends. 

It had been too long since it had last heard it. The last person to have known it had died maybe a millennia ago, by now, hadn't they? It couldn't even remember their name, much less its own. 

The hurt wasn't there anymore. Everything was too old, too far away, to hurt anymore. It had no more space for hurt. Not as long as he kept flying. Maybe if he flew far enough, without stopping, without breaks or pauses, he would find a new horizon to land on.

(Maybe it wasn't flying that would find it that new horizon.) 

The clouds brushed by without registering on its brilliant feathers, whistling damp and cold as it blazed below them for the first time in unrecognizable months. 

_A phoenix is immortal,_ it reminded himself. The cloud layer broke, parting around its wings. Scattering around its steepening dive. Reborn from the ashes again, and again, and again. Nothing short of spreading the ashes would keep it down– and there wasn't anything _fast_ enough to do so. At least, as far as it was aware. 

(It had checked. It had searched. Why were nothing and no one fast enough? An apology was not enough anymore, despite how the roaring disappointment had slowly weakened to a whisper–) 

_I will burn forever,_ It told itself. _No sword has ever extinguished me. No arrows, or bullets, or devil fruits–_ it had fought wars and time itself. No amount of action or inaction had claimed it yet. 

It hadn't yet tried the ocean. Something about that made it cringe away even now. The thought of succumbing under the weight of water... of going out _sudden_ and _quick,_ as if it had never been there in the first place– 

_No bleeding dry, no pain. No catharsis._ Extinguished so easily. Almost as if it never even died. The most peaceful way it could think to go out. It wasn’t what it was looking for. Wasn’t the one thing left to _want–_

_It will not help me feel again._

(...But would anything, anymore? It had been alive for so _long–)_

It could almost hear the waves again, still far below it. For the first time in days. For the first time in months. Blue, and blue, and blue– as far as its keen eyes could see. Untouched as its feathers, expansive and endless– 

A man was watching it. A single smear. A little stain, disrupting the waves. It could almost swear it could physically feel the attention of that focus. A ship, breaking among the blue. 

Adrift, alone— with a man nearly dwarfing his own vessel. Tall and broad, with long, fair hair; who was watching it. 

Almost unthinkingly, its wings flared out. Caught before its talons could even brush the surface, the stop sprayed salty mist into its mouth and across its feathers. Disgusting the cloying. The shock that _taste_ gave it, salt on its tongue after so long, nearly sent it to drown anyway. 

For a long moment, all it did was stare back. It hadn't seen a human in a while– not since the last time it had landed. When that actually had been was lost on it. If it tried, it could almost recall the click of a gun, the rattle of the metal hinges of a cage– and then nothing but the fuzzy memories of salty wind and cold, thin air. 

It hovered, inches above and before two inclinations. If its luck didn't change would the consequences still be the same? Extinguished, caged, caught– was there still a difference, anymore? 

Why had it bothered worrying, all that time? When there was only ever one result, for both of its choices? What was the point of a life made entirely of running away?

(If it spotted the slightest glint of metal, of chains or cuffs or cages, there was only ever one option– and that was deep in the ocean. Existing may have been boring, but at least it was free to be bored. An eternity of enslavement would never be better than to just not exist at all. It knew better than to take its chances anymore. Not when everyone it had known had lived and died, and the stories left of it led people who didn't know it, who didn't _care_ about it to–) 

The human was still staring at it. How long had they been in this standoff? Even though it had perfect eyesight, the man’s expression was unreadable. Quirked in a way that it couldn't recognize. Humans had quickly become unfamiliar, the longer it had gone without seeing anything but the occasional free-flying bird from its flock. 

Confusing, curious. Just what was this person thinking, if not to shoot it? What was he trying to accomplish, floating about aimlessly in the middle of an ocean? It wasn’t the first time by far something had frozen at the sight of the phoenix, but this was uncannily… it didn’t have the right words. Unaggressive? Shallowly inquisitive? 

(How long had it been since it last saw a creature that stared at it with anything less than greed?) 

It blinked as firm pressure settled under its talons, unaware when it had turned to alight onto the railing of the ship’s deck. The ocean was somewhat forgotten behind it. (Pushed to the recesses, to be considered later. When it had sated its curiosity. When it was _bored_ again.) The man barely seemed to shift. Though his eyes traced the phoenix’s form warily, there was no twitch for a sword or a gun at his back. Not even a cautious step back, though his gaze lingered on the massive blue claws latched onto his rail. 

The human just met its eyes evenly. Not breaking to blink or to breathe, expression creasing the longer neither of them moved, and –

The phoenix’s feathers ruffled. _Oh,_ it realized, something almost embarrassed fringing its thoughts, _I am supposed to… to say something._ Its beak parted and closed, clicking quietly in the silence. Its throat was hesitant to open, to move. Unused to being used at all. It could barely remember the shape of words in its mouth. Foreign, unfamiliar– _When did I last speak?_ When did it last make any noise? Anything at all? There was no point in singing anymore. No when there was no one to hear. No point in calling out, with no one to greet, no point in– 

Its first attempt was garbled and unrecognizable. It winced, unsure what language it was even trying to force out. If it was one still alive, it wasn't said in any way the human recognized, by the way his face scrunched up in confusion. Its second attempt was closer to the ways it remembered it, vowels dripping and clicked out, but it was clear the other still had no clue what it was trying to communicate. 

“...I don't understand,” The man eventually said, slow and hesitant, and went still when the phoenix practically _glowed_ with realization. The words weren’t right, the intonation unstressed and strange in a way its memories weren’t– but still...

It took a moment of struggling, of whistling and hissing under its breath as it tried to loosen his tongue. But eventually, it managed to stumble over a fairly clear chirp of “E-Englisc?” that had the man’s eyes widening. The old tongue wasn’t _right._ Wasn’t _exact,_ the rises and dips and stresses of vowels so abstract compared to the man’s easy tone– but it was the closest it had. 

Invigorated, it ignored how its feathers rose in a flare of cool light. “Englisc?” It repeated. “Are– sy–” it hissed, clicking to itself in frustration while the human just continued to stare at it in shock. _“Gese?”_ It eventually forced out, leaning so far forward it almost fell. 

It hadn't been nervous in perhaps a century– and hearing it in its voice, _hearing_ its voice at all (even if his words weren’t right and the man didn’t understand him), made it's chest swell with something terrifying and old. Rushed, frenzied–

“Hello,” The man breathed. 

_(–Alive.)_

It was just as quickly gone. Vanished in a flash, as if it was never there at all, but knowing it could still– could still _feel–_ it _ached._

English wasn't a language he was admittedly too familiar with so far. It was only a couple of centuries old, wasn't it? Not one it had gotten much exposure to. But old enough for it to remember. Enough to have heard it in its fledgling days, back when it still bothered trying to fly low for something resembling company. Before it had begun to _truly_ start flying. 

(It barely remembered what from. Barely remembered if it was ever running away, or just started and couldn't stop. Had it really been so long since it had last paused?) 

The human still looked a little dumbfounded. It wasn't making any moves to speak beside his one word–– and wasn't that _frustrating,_ to have the only person around who likely knew at least a facet of a language not _speaking_ it–– _“hātest_ _þū_ _?”_ It grit out. Barely a flicker of recognition. Maybe it's pronunciation had faltered. Maybe the language had evolved past his recognition. _“Hāte–_ n-name? _Þæs..._ _õu,”_ it paused, considering the human’s squinted stare. “...you? Name?” 

“Are you… asking for my name?” The human gave it another look that it couldn't understand. Something familiarly fascinated and yet softened with something it hadn't seen before. 

(It had. It had seen it before, millennia ago. On the face of a friend, on the face of a loved one, wilting unhealed in the circle of its desperate fire; all singing bones and sagging skin–)

It pushed it all down. Swallowed it like stinging bile, heat racing back down its throat solid and stiff. Stuffed it right back where it belonged, too far away from it to see. There would be no entertaining old stories. It didn't have time for them. 

The man shifted in a move decidedly less stiff. It watched, eyeing the smooth way his skin pulled and joints moved silently. “My name is Edward Newgate,” the human responded, all looping sounds and easy vocalization, and it snapped out of its thoughts violently. His brown eyes regarded it coolly, calm and unaware of its thoughts, and the phoenix relaxed in response without really giving thought to when it had stiffened. “Can you understand me? I am a pirate, though I appear to be rather lost.” 

It tasted the sound, the _name,_ on its tongue. “N...ewgate…” The thought of a name was almost dizzying. The idea that it knew a name, that it could _say_ it and its owner would _answer…_

It hummed in irritation, shaking out its plumage as if to brush off invisible dust. Half of those words were lost on it. It had no idea what a “pirate” was supposed to mean, but it did recognize the word “lost”. That was a word the few humans it did see use all the time– humans it found small and stumbling, along the cliff faces and forests it had perched in for a rest. 

_“Lost,”_ It repeated thoughtfully. How to respond was escaping it. It left it to shift uncomfortably in its makeshift perch. _“You_ lost?” Separated from older humans. Seperated from nests. Humans who could not find their way. It must have been easy to get lost if you couldn't see the stars. There was no map in the human’s hands, no hints of lined paper in his pockets, or the waistline of his pants. 

It knew the way. It always did. There was not an ounce of ocean it had not yet touched. it didn't matter which part of it this human was looking for. 

Would it _help_ though? It had better things to do, didn't it, than to help some random human? Than to try and speak a language unfamiliar and awkward on its tongue, than to direct towards land when the man could just as easily turn on it at any point? Maybe the man had friends waiting on the closest island. Maybe they had guns and cages. Maybe it had been spotted glowing even through the clouds. Maybe they were anticipating its _curiosity._

...Maybe it didn't matter. 

It would be something interesting, at least. Something breathtakingly _new._ Something it hadn’t tasted before– at least not in a long, long time. 

(There was always the ocean, in all the miles between here and whatever was waiting.)

It seemed it didn't have to struggle to voice all of that, with the way Newgate seemed to regard it in a new light. “Will you help me?” It was asked. That was a lot of noise to parse through, and barely any of it was remotely recognizable. “I have food, if you want that.” 

_Help, food, want._ Those weren’t so unfamiliar. Those it swore it had heard within the last few centuries, yelled between humans edging to close in on it. Passed over mouthfuls and shared greed. 

The human frowned when it shook its head. It did not need help. There was nothing the addition of more humans could do to improve its existence. Food didn't matter– it couldn't even remember what any of it tasted like anyway. Want… 

It just wanted to not be bored. 

(Just wanted to feel something, if only for a moment. To thaw out, as if all its flying had chilled its nerves to numbness and ice. There was no better reward, and it would be getting it either way.) 

“H-help,” It promised, spreading its wings. _“Eowland feorbúend._ I help.” It had no idea why it was even bothering– but at least it was something to do. If anything, it weighted its wings with a purpose. All it would need to do was a quick check, just a brief flight back above the clouds to see the stars. 

“Wait!” It froze when Newgate thrust out his fleshy hand. It was withdrawn just as quickly, jerked away before it could even hiss. “Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you” The human said, quieter this time. Something in its voice was strangely rushed, forcing it to carefully focus just to catch what he was trying to say. “Can I know your name, first?” 

_Name. Your._

It's own name. 

Of _course–_ right, shouldn’t it have expected that? Newgate had given _his_ name, and it would only be polite to– _to–_

The silence was stifling. Newgate’s expression hadn’t changed. The longer he waited for an answer, the more it deepened, darkened. Something cold welled up in the phoenix, strong as a deep-water current. 

_Has it really been so long, since I had someone to call me by name?_ Newgate was still looking at it– still staring with that same _expression–_

“I… name,” It said instead, because what else was there to say? At least this way it would have the illusion of being known. At least this way Newgate could never hope to claim it, to name it for his own like some sort of pet. He had a name, somewhere. Even if he couldn't remember it. It refused to die nameless. Even if there was no one left to speak it. Even when there hadn't been anyone alive to speak it in an unknown amount of centuries. 

It didn't matter. What did it care that it couldn't remember its name? It couldn't remember lots of things. What was a name in the grand scheme of hundreds of thousands of lives, of deaths and rebirths, of– 

“That’s fine,” Newgate said quietly, and the suddenness of the words almost made it reflexively crunch the wood under its talons to splinters. “You don't have to give me your name if you don't want to. You’re already helping me, after all.” 

The phoenix was left silent. Gauging the human before it as best as it could, with its limited memory and experience. Stopped short in the face of the simplest, clearest respect it had gotten in millennia. 

It had no idea how to bridge that gap between _known_ and _forgotten._ No idea what to expect. Just how different were humans now, from what little it remembered of them a handful of centuries ago? From the brief interactions it had over the years, between milliseconds-worth of pit stops and pauses; what was it supposed to anticipate from the man in front of it? 

It didn't know, and the longer it thought about it the less it realized it cared. 

(The tiniest tingle of curiosity, of confusion, winked out with the same ease of a wick in the water. Inconsequential and forgotten. This was a brief experience, after all. It wasn’t worth more than what energy it was already expending.) 

Newgate didn't do anything more than watch, that same _look_ on his face, as the phoenix fled up above the clouds. 

* * *

“That’s rather handy,” Newgate greeted it when it returned. It seemed the human wasn't willing to let names and tension stop him from trying to talk. He seemed plenty content just to have it alight back onto his ship railing, leaning onto the wood beside it. Without the glint in his eyes that it recalled of most humans, he just seemed… relieved? It wondered if he wasn’t used to the silence. Only a human would do weird things like sail off alone. It wasn’t it's business though. “Must be nice not to have to use a map or log pose.” 

It had no idea what either of those things were. One of the words was vaguely familiar, but in the way that a song from a distance was still somewhat recognizable. Close to another word in another language that it had not heard spoken in a long time. 

The human paused. His face fell a little, mouth thinning as he seemed to see something on the phoenix’s face. Without a word, he ducked down and began to do a strange little dance– patting his large hands over his clothes and humming quietly with each little tap. Left the phoenix just watching, somewhat bewildered, until he muttered “Oh, there–” and pulled a crinkled and water-stained little paper out of an inner seam from his vest. A comically tiny thing, nestled _oh-so-delicately_ between Newgate’s fingers. Dirty and just beginning to yellow, with odd little dash lines and drawings...

“M-map,” It realized, craning its head closer. 

(The word sparked something quiet in it, for just a moment. Like flint and steel, a brief flicker of light and warmth among the cold. Familiarity always did, these days. It so rarely had it to lean on.) 

Newgate dutifully held it out for the phoenix to better inspect. Didn't twitch or pull away. even as blazing flight feathers stretched outwards to just barely brush faded ink. 

(Its flames did not burn, but surely this human did not know that. Surely wasn’t aware that his precious little paper, so fragile, so attentively nestled in his hands, was in no danger. The warmth whispered again, ignored and unnoticed.)

The paper rustled lightly when it nudged at it with his beak. “It _is_ a map?” It asked quietly. Newgate’s face twisted oddly when it glanced up at him for confirmation. Whatever he felt, it made him hesitate. His mouth quirked up at the corners and his eyes squinted, crinkling at the corners. It was not anger, though, it knew– and the “map” remained in a still and relaxed hand between them. Anything else came secondary to that; it turned back to the map. 

“This is a map, yes,” Newgate finally answered. “It’s not _here,_ but it’s the only map I have right now. See this?” His finger tapped lightly at one of the little blotches of ink. The words around it were smeared to illegibility even to the human, but Newgate knew he would never need to read it to know its name. The words came out slowly, but it wasn’t entirely sure that it was for its benefit. Not with the way the human traced his touch against the ink, grazing unfamiliar shapes with the same sort of reverence it used to feel. “This is my home island. I came from here.” 

The phoenix squinted at the tiny smudge of text. “Home,” It mumbled. Slowly saying the word, clicking it beak as if it was trying to taste it. “You... from “home” island?” It was a strange name, for an island. Not said quite right, awkward even to its inexperienced ears– it was near certain he had heard that word elsewhere. 

(Tangled and unrecognizable, slurred through a dozen different languages. _Home._ it was sure it had heard it somewhere before, whether on the cries of a passing child or the snarl of a hunter passing below it.) 

(Where was it messing up?) 

“Home. Where you from?” It still didn't sound correct. Still fumbled on its tongue, caught in the back of its throat. Such a short word, for the length of smeared letters on the little paper. Had it really been so long, since it had last read anything? It wasn't sure whether it was itself or the text that had changed to be so unrecognizable. 

“Yes, a home can be where I came from.” 

(Not an answer that truly filled in the blanks. It still had so many questions, and no idea how to ask any of them.) 

“Anyway,” Newgate began, and the phoenix was almost reeling with the sudden shift in conversation. “Which way is the island? We go before GrandLine weather gets us.” 

The human watched it for a response until it nodded slowly. The need to fly was abruptly overwhelming, almost– it hadn’t realized it had quieted at all until Newgate had spoken. 

(Hadn't realized it was a need at all, until it was gone and back. For how long had it felt nothing but the pressure to keep running? It couldn't even remember where he had been trying to go.)

(Maybe there never was a destination in mind.) 

“... _Ne…_ No _Feorbúend_ ,” It finally admitted. The closest island wouldn’t take more than an hour to fly to– maybe even for a round trip. From the look on the human’s face, it doubted it's intent was clear enough, but that didn’t matter. He’d understand when it was back. Probably. “I go?” Newgate bobbed his head and for a long moment they just stared at each other until it realized the gesture was likely meant as some sort of approval. At least, it hoped so. At best, it was a neutral acknowledgment that it supposed _could_ be perceived as approval. It still wasn’t really able to differentiate between what made a negative or a positive reaction yet– just ones made up of anger. 

It didn't need to learn anger again. It simply never forgot. 

How could it, when that was all the interaction it had gotten in the past countless days, years, decades? The furrow of a brow, when a wound didn't last. The shouted orders, the screams when it dragged itself just out of reach– hands and ropes and chains falling short; of course anger was all it ever knew. It wasn't mad himself, of course. It was just another thing to run away from.

(What did that make it, then?) 

The atmosphere was suddenly stifling. 

It spread his wings. Cast a last long glance back at Newgate, searching for a second nod, for anything possibly marking approval– and listened to the human yank at the ropes and rigging behind it as it glided a path forward. It just had to keep flying. That’s all it was doing. Fly to the next island, and then when Newgate had had enough of it, and it was _bored_ again– then it would fill the emptiness elsewhere. 

It would be so easy. First, though, it would milk all it could from this last experience. this last interaction before it stopped trying to tug at chances. 

The ocean wasn’t going anywhere. 

* * *

Newgate had been quiet since the island came into view. 

Neither of them made a move to leave the ship. The phoenix was plenty occupied with remaining perched on the rail. It wasn’t as if there was anything there to bother with on the land. A tiny little land-mass, with little to its name but some scraggly cliffs for sea-birds to nest and a few windy plains of grass. Completely uninhabited, at least of humans. 

It was just another one of its pocketed islands that it knew was safe. That no one and nothing was alive on it to bother it besides maybe some poisonous plants or cliffs to fall off of. 

_How boring._

“Well,” Newgate eventually piped up, “This is… something, yes.” There was a strange, almost flat quality to the usual timbers of the human’s voice that made the feathers on the phoenix’s back lift subconsciously. The pause in his voice left room for tension. Time enough for the ropes in its ribs to pull tight. “You know, when I asked for directions, I had more… more _people_ in mind.” 

People. He wanted _people_ ? This human wanted _other humans?_

Well, that was _unfair._ How was it supposed to know that? Weren't humans supposed to say these things, if they wanted something specific? “Not say,” it responded. This would have been so much easier if he had just _said_ something. Was it wasting its time? Something bubbled in it, hot like a spark and extinguished the next breath. 

It wasn’t bored. It was hot, and tight, and was starting to genuinely eye the waves for a new reason— but it wasn’t bored yet. “ _Not say._ Why?” 

“I honestly assumed… well, it doesn't matter.” The human made a strange expression, the skin on his face pulling upwards. 

(Hadn’t it seen that before, somewhere? On blurred faces and in vague memories, fuzzy beyond recognition… It was sure it had heard it even before. Over and over and over again, and well, that just didn't add up.) 

Newgate’s face only seemed to pull more when he turned the look towards it. “I need to find more humans,” he admitted, “to have a _family_.” The most important word was clear, with the layers of emphasis the human seemed to articulate– an effort lost on his only audience. It doubted its expression had even twitched in response, and yet Newgate took one glance at it and his face did another odd quirk. The skin and muscles seemed to sag downwards. It was fairly certain it still wasn't anger, but still something about the way it moved made something infinitely colder in its chest. “My crew will be my family,” Newgate elaborated quietly, “Full of humans I want. Humans I want to stay with me. They will be with me because they want to.” 

_Family… a group of humans who want to be together?_

“This is my dream,” Newgate admitted to it. “I want to have a family.” The human seemed to stall for a moment, watching the phoenix oddly– but just as it always it had no idea what Newgate might have been looking for. Whatever it was, the other didn't seem to find it– or maybe he did– because barely a second later he was back to fiddling with the strange wheel by the front of the ship. “I want to have a family,” He repeated, “A large crew. As many as I can find.” 

Family... people that would make up a family. If Newgate had to find them, they would be strangers, wouldn’t they? 

It didn't make sense. Maybe that was what made it keep listening. 

“How you find?” It asked. “You fly?” _Like me,_ it didn't say. _Endlessly running. Endlessly reaching._

But Newgate was the type to stop, it seemed. There was an intensity of intent that the Phoenix could barely understand. The human was _finding,_ when all it had been doing was flying. The more time it spent with the man the more it realized there was a difference between the two. 

“I don't know. I will just have to keep looking. Talk to as many of them as I can, and take who will take me in turn.” There was that new expression again, a face full of curves and creases that made it feel strange. “I hope to find a family full of people like you. If I can do that, I will be happy, don't you think?” 

_I don't understand._

Newgate made a loud rumbling sound, the noise bursting out of him like a vibrating song. “Since we didn't find any humans, maybe you can take me a little further?” Despite the lack of influx to his tone, his eyes refused to stray from the phoenix. It pinned it, made it feel almost naked under its feathers. “Stay with me a bit longer,” Newgate asked voice quieting, “Maybe you'll find something yourself.” 

_I don’t understand._

The boat was turning, pulling away from the tiny little rock in the middle of the sea– and he Phoenix with it. It remained rooted, talons curled unmoving from the wooden rail. Listening to Newgate humming as he worked. Filling in the silence. 

_I don't understand. But maybe I could, eventually._

_That would be interesting, wouldn't it?_ Almost like flying. Almost like running. Maybe this time it wouldn't be so alone. Maybe it would begin to close the gaps. Bridge something between the mild flickers of focus that pulsed, warming and chilling like a second heartbeat in his ribcage. Maybe it could attempt to fill in the all-encompassing _nothing._

Eventually, it seemed the silence stretched too far for the human. “So,” Newgate began. The phoenix cast him a sideways glance, watching as the human tugged at the rigging in a way almost familiar to it. “Why help a random stranger like me? I’m sure a giant bird made of fire has better things to do?” Even as he said it, that strange glint refused to leave the man’s eyes. There was, as always, something it was missing in what the other was asking of it– and just as always, it had no idea what that might be. 

Although, it wasn't as if it had the greatest amount of understandable vocabulary at its disposal, either– “Fly,” it answered instead. Short. Sufficient. True. “I will... would fly.”

“Only?” The glint darkened. It seemed to shadow the dips and lines in Newgate’s face, leaving his gaze pointedly attentive. Intensely focused in a way it knew should mean it should step back. “Nothing but flying?” 

It didn't understand. What else was there? There was flying— or there was falling. Crashing into the water, or crashing into a cage. There was always something vying to catch up to it. There was always only one choice. “Only flying.” 

Newgate didn't seem ready to answer that just yet. They lapsed into silence, watching each other without bothering to hide it. “Well,” Newgate finally started again, “Now you can say that you’re doing more than flying.” Whatever look it gave the human only gained it a strange expression in return, softened at the edges in a way that only managed to confuse it further. “Do you want to see what I’m doing? I’ll explain it to you as best I can if you come here.” 

Its feathers fluffed up a little, something quietly indignant bristling in his chest before falling flat. It may have been a long time since it last came anywhere near a ship of any kind, but the motions were vaguely recognizable. It was certain it had _known_ this, once– known in the way it had once known its name. It wasn't some fledgling that had to be shown the ropes and how to tie them. 

Newgate’s body language remained lax and open, waiting not-unkindly. “When we're done, we can go and eat dinner.” Still so softened, around the corners of his eyes. “I know you said you don’t want food, but I have some rare fruits from the last island I was at you might like?” 

It didn’t bother responding. Newgate didn’t push it. He was quiet as it carefully moved to settle on a closer railing, not bringing up how it kept its eyes pinned to Newgate’s hands just to avoid the way the human looked at him. 

Just to avoid acknowledging that the human was the first thing that had been able to fill in the empty spaces in it at all.


	2. In the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco makes mistakes, unaware the entire time that his actions are in fact a mistake in progress.

No matter what impression the human had made— and the Phoenix refused to think that it had allowed anything to have been “made” at all— it was intent on keeping distance between them. Old habits died hard. It didn’t necessarily care if Newgate would decide to turn on it. It was a Phoenix. It was forever. No bruises or bullet holes would remain. What was the point of dodging shackles when it had already been so ready to embrace the most intimate end of all?

But. 

_ But _ .

Newgate settled into their crow’s nest, huffing with the effort to squeeze his massive body into the tight space. “You really pick em,” He grumbled lightheartedly. “Either here or the mast. Can't give an old man a break, can you?” 

It was becoming remarkably predictable, it seemed. 

The Phoenix made a low trill, not bothering to look up from its preening. The action did not actually change its plumage, its beak phased through the flames with barely a nudge to their foundation. Still the action alone was soothing. 

It also kept it from jerking around to stare. Newgate was a weird, almost unnervingly  _ gentle _ human, but it doubted he would take kindly to its glaring. It was hesitant enough just listening him talk. As if the slightest slip in the expression would make it clear what little few of the human’s words it was truly managing to process. Though, with the slow and careful way he spoke, it was distantly aware that Newgate more than likely already knew. “Bones not sing,” it countered through a mouthful of flickering feathers. “You not  _ old _ .” 

“They don’t  _ creak _ , no, but that isn't the only way to know the age of a human. Just the only one that you seem to know.” 

“And?” 

“No, nothing else. Just an observation.” 

Newgate seemed to have a lot of those. It was the word he used every time he said something weird in response to the Phoenix. It was what he said when he caught it preening, when it stared if he came too close, when it couldn’t help its squint when he spoke too quickly. Bundled up and out of sight like a bouquet with petals just peeking over the top, too closed to tell whether it liked the way they’d smell. 

(Half-truths and silver linings— when was Newgate going to realize it couldn’t recognize the nuances?)

Unaware of its thoughts, the human leaned carefully against the mast and stared out over the distance. “We’ll be docking soon,” he warned, and a tiny little chill yawned awake beneath the phoenix’s feathers. “Would you rather come with me, or stay onboard? I’m sure we can find something for you, on the island– some new maps, maybe a book, something small.” 

It blinked. The rest of the words paled in comparison to the first, dripping out of its attention like melting molasses. 

_ I have either of those options?  _

_ He doesn’t want me to leave? _

It was not lost on it that Newgate was not trying to herd it towards the shore. Another half-regarded series of theories crossed off its list. More answers and questions both— why was it still  _ here _ ? How long would it last? 

(It had been such a long time since it wanted an answer it could name.) 

“Stay,” it blurted out, startling itself. The word came unfiltered, its usual impulse functions not enough to block the answer in time. Even Newgate’s eyes widened just enough for it to perceive— equally surprised that it would rather remain in place— and it was frozen to know that it would. That it would give up exploring, to wait for a virtual stranger to return. 

It recognized this island. It recognized every island. It was hard to believe there could be anywhere it hadn’t yet touched, in its eternal migration.

The surprise was bitter. Solid and hot, like a bullet lodged into its throat. Was it exploring it gave up, when it took off and never landed? Or was it knowing that exploration was never the same, that every memory was soured in blood stains and chains? That living meant knowing that no matter where it went, there would be someone vying for attention through a fistful of its feathers. Always eyes to be met. Always money to be made. Flesh, blood, and bones were not named human without greed. 

(Strung up like a prize wherever it went; was it chasing the sun or being chased?) 

Maybe it was just mistaking Newgate’s expression again. Maybe that one was supposed to be frustration— it surely hadn’t been so long it had forgotten it yet, had it? How many years had it been since it last was close enough to a human to illicit that specific reaction, that harrowed greed? Maybe if it stayed, Newgate would come back with the other humans he no doubt planned to use to catch the Phoenix. Maybe he would tell someone. Maybe a trade would occur, out of his sight. 

Maybe Newgate was simply letting it stay.

_ What’s happening to me? _

Trauma always won out in the end, the one wound eternity could never take from him. The last shards of ice under the fire. 

“I will wait here.”

It watched Newgate leave, something cold and solid freezing stiff under its skin. 

* * *

  
  


It admittedly lost track of time. It was easy to do so– almost even easier than it was when flying. Easy to forget. Unmoving, it could almost pretend it didn't exist at all. It was only the little shifts in its feathers, flickering in the breeze— the rocking of the ship beneath its talons. Those alone, those fleeting sensations, was all it had to jolt it back to attention– absent as it still was. 

There weren't many reasons to bother being aware. Endlessly drifting above a sea storm often left no space for conscious thought. But here in breeze, the rocking, the thick wave of haki resonating like a heartbeat from the shore...

Newgate was coming back. It couldn’t see him yet, around the bends and blocks of human nests, but the dense swell of power was unmistakable.

(No, it wasn’t surprised. It wasn't excited. It just was. That’s all it ever could be, that’s all it had ever been for as long as it could remember. Newgate was an anomaly of a human and it would not matter in the end.)

(It would not be relieved. That was never worth it in the end.) 

Neither could it ignore the smaller (but no less significant) little pulse beside it. 

_ A new human. My human has returned with a new—  _ it paused, freezing—  _ Newgate is not  _ my _ human.  _ It did not own the man. It barely knew him. It could not care about him. 

(Newgate radiated excited content so  _ loudly _ . His presence alone echoed like singing to it. Pure, untainted by the usual greed it was used to in the few humans it encountered. So strongly  _ happy _ that it could almost taste it.)

It flew down just in time to catch the two humans stepping onto the deck— alighting by the far rail close enough to have full view of how the new human’s eyes widened at the sight of it. 

His expression quickly smoothed out. The Phoenix turned its head away, tucking its beak into its feathers instead of meeting that unblinking stare. Listening as a careful hush fell over the deck. It could see the man glancing around in the corner of its eye. After his initial shock, the human seemed almost.... disinterested. As if there wasn’t a bird made of blue flames in front of him, and  _ that was _ —

Finally, he spoke up. “You asked me to join your crew. I wasn't aware your “crew” was only you and your parrot.” 

It looked up from its preening, one wing still raised halfway. The man beside Newgate was a stocky build, as far as it could tell. Even from several feet away, he towered over it. Standing next to Newgate somehow didn't manage to make him any smaller. 

Newgate took one look at the phoenix and burst out laughing. 

The new human didn’t seem very taken aback. It struggled to see if there was any difference in the man’s current frown compared to the one he wore a minute ago, but even as it stared there was no further change. Newgate seemed plenty happy to just laugh at them, for some reason. 

It finally turned to look at Newgate. “I am parrot?” It asked. The human’s face twitched. Almost painfully so, as if he had forced whatever real expression he wanted to not happen. It just continued to watch as Newgate’s chuckles died out to something softer. The human didn't make a move to come closer, to try to touch the phoenix, but his eyes seemed somehow warmer in a way he couldn't describe. 

“You are not a parrot,” Newgate answered, and it was left even more confused. The new human looked as confused as it felt, which frankly wasn't fair. “ _ Parrot _ ” wasn't a word it was familiar with– if it wasn't one, to a point so obvious that Newgate would laugh, why would it be called that at all? “A parrot is a bird that people stereotype pirates to have as companions.” 

He only made that same upturned-mouth-shape-crinkled-eyes expression when the phoenix squinted at him, unsure if the man was joking. It had no idea what a stereotype or a companion was. Were they just making fun of it? 

“It can  _ talk,” _ The man blurted out, voice hinged on hesitant shock, and it was starting to feel something almost annoyed. 

Newgate didn't seem phased in the slightest. “This is my navigator, and first-mate,” He said, gesturing calmly towards the phoenix.  _ “He _ is in charge of directing us to the next island.” 

A lot of the words Newgate said were completely unrecognizable. All the Phoenix knew was that it was the one being referred to. Newgate wasn’t making any moves to define the words like usual, either. But frankly, knowing it was the topic was all it truly cared about in the slightest. Everything else would be secondary until there was a weapon pulled on it— 

It paused. Blinking wasn’t something it generally needed to do, and yet it found itself doing so rapidly as it stared at Newgate. 

“He?” It asked quietly. 

Both humans went still, turning towards him. “Unless you prefer  _ her?” _ Newgate started slowly. “Or maybe  _ they? _ I don’t mean to assume.” 

_ Assume what _ ? A gender? It was barely real, barely even tethered to reality by its own false flames. What good were pronouns without anyone who— 

_ He _ was masculine. That was the one for human men. It was not a human, but others used it as well, didn’t they? It was a Phoenix, but it still had its own thoughts. Newgate hadn’t tried to coax it into any cage. Hadn’t referred to it as if... 

_ There was no cage waiting on the first island, it reminded itself. He did not force me to join him. He does not have the  _ look _ that the others did. He leaves me  _ alone _.  _

The human gave Newgate an expression it hadn't seen before, something tense and quiet, and the look on the captain’s face refused to even waver. It was a long few seconds of what seemed like an entirely silent conversation before the new one slowly turned to properly meet its eyes and nodded once. “...My name is Jozu.” When nothing else followed that up, the phoenix looked up at Newgate. The captain only watched on, his grin never letting up. It only seemed impossibly wider when it returned the stare and nodded itself. 

The “Jozu” human’s mouth was doing the downward quirk that Newgate’s sometimes did. “....Do you... have a name?” he asked. 

The phoenix froze. Shot a look back at Newgate again only to find the human humming to himself as he turned to the rigging. Even it could tell that was a false gesture– it knew by now that the real rigging he needed to touch first was across the deck. Out of earshot. 

Jozu’s eyes were darting between them.

Its beak clicked near inaudibly as it opened and closed, gaping uselessly for an awkward and uncounted handful of seconds. “Name?” It mumbled. Jozu hesitantly nodded, brows furrowing low the longer he waited for an answer. “You want… my name.”

_ A name. I am being asked for a name, again– a name I do not have. Why is it so important? Is it not enough to just be? What am I even supposed to say– _ Newgate continued to hum, tugging lightly at the sails. Jozu’s expression was becoming slowly severe.  _ The human asked me for my name, which I do not have, and do not remember.  _

Almost nothing was coming to mind– and it had been silent for too long. Jozu turned towards where Newgate was still fiddling with the sails. “It— he— _they_ _are_ yours, right? Did you even–” 

The phoenix knew immediately, _ instinctively, _ what was about to be asked– and nearly flared up with the sudden  _ heat _ that exploded inside of it. Sharp and fast like a firecracker hissing away in its chest, burning up into pseudo lungs and  _ searing _ unignorable through its throat– 

It—  _ he _ was not some object or pet to be  _ named _ . 

_ “Marco,” _ He forced out. 

Jozu’s jaw clicked shut. The phoenix was frozen. Left staring past Jozu at nothing to avoid acknowledging the way Newgate’s hands had stilled. Reeling in the rapidly chilling wake of that initial burst of burning  _ something. _

The word– the  _ name– _ rolled oddly off his tongue. Vowels smooth and easy even from his unused vocal cords. His heart thumped loudly at the sound of it. 

(He had heard this before, hasn’t he? From someone else’s lips, long after he had forgotten their face, the sound of their voice– but the same spike, the same rush of  _ something– _ he  _ remembered _ that. Remembered what it meant, how it felt to recognize someone calling for him,  _ calling him–) _

“My name is Marco,” He whispered, and Newgate turned and gave him a look so unbelievably bright Marco could have mistaken it for the sun. A hand gently settled over his back, between his folded wings, and he leaned into it with a little shiver. Rewarded with the warmth, with the weight of that touch sinking into his feathers the longer he refused to jerk away. 

It turned impossibly wider somehow, almost glowing off Newgate’s face with a force brighter than even Marco’s feathers, when Jozu just shrugged and asked him where he should put his stuff.

* * *

Jozu was alright. A decent human, as far as Marco was concerned. 

He didn't have much to go off of, naturally, between the only two humans he had willingly spoken to in who knew how many decades. But so far Jozu had been quiet. A steady presence exploring the deck. He took his time in glancing over the rigging and nodded seriously to Newgate’s explanations, inspecting the rooms carefully. He eventually settled beside Marco when he seemed to decide he had enough. The phoenix turned to stare at him, waiting, but the human made no moves to speak or touch. No motions too sudden or too fast, no staring or wayward glances. 

He was just… there. Never pushing or prodding. Not belligerent or impatient or annoying. Just  _ decent.  _

Marco could appreciate decent.

When Marco finally spotted the island in the distance, just peeking over the dark waves, he was already spreading his wings. Jozu passed him a cursory glance. “Shouldn’t you wait to tell Newgate first?” 

The question didn't seem to hold anything but genuine curiosity. Still, Marco felt as though he maybe should have been a little offended. 

“I go where I go,” Marco replied curtly. Jozu gave him a look but it wasn't one he recognized and so wasn't one he cared about. “I go, he can come.” If he wanted to, at least– and Marco  _ knew _ the human did. Why would he bother to drop their arrangement when he had been the one to specifically ask for it? What would be the point? 

If Newgate was planning anything, Marco had already resolved not to be surprised. Whatever amount of time they had spent together was doubtfully enough to secure any amount of loyalty or affection. Marco could vaguely recall times he had spent more than a couple of years with humans only for them to turn on him, after all. Many of them didn't even take years before they tried. 

No. If Newgate was planning to do anything to Marco, it was in his best interest to keep following him. Why would Marco bother to tell the human where he was going, if he was going to tail him either way? 

He wasn't sure which, if any, of his thoughts managed to pass over his face. Jozu was unnervingly silent as he rose off the rail, blazing towards the speck in the distance. 

* * *

The island was surprisingly average. Nothing huge or immediately unique about it– at least in Marco’s eyes. Maybe his human companions might think differently. But the buildings were made of wood and stone, the shops and houses bustling with noise and people with things to do and lives to live– and from what little Marco could remember from hazy passes and pasts, that was… normal. Just normal humans, doing normal things– all the way out in the middle of the Grand Line. 

Marco glided low and landed on the brightest lit rooftop he could see. Even with the golden backlight of various lanterns and lights, the dimming blue glow of his feathers was near inconceivable. It gave Marco a nice temporary perch to scan over the little town, keen eyes picking out any discrepancies below him by sheer force of habit. 

(Looking for the most interesting thing. For the first thing that caught his attention, that would distract him. Maybe if he just took flight again, he’d cause some panic. Maybe someone would try to shoot down the large, burning blue bird. Maybe–) 

A muffled ruckus exploded under him, snapping him to attention just as a back-alley door to the tavern he stood on slammed open. 

He craned his head over carefully. Where he sat he could just make out the movement of bodies in the dark– a dirty white shirt outlined in yellow lights as a human was bodily shoved out of the building. “Fine,” He snapped, stumbling over his own feet,  _ “Fine! _ Just shows you don't care about your employees, to toss us out over nothing–” He ducked down as a fist swung over his head. 

“This is the last time you’ll steal from  _ me, _ boy,” The older human was practically snarling. If Marco leaned just a bit closer he swore he could catch the light of spittle flying through the air. “I’ve been more than good to you! I took you in despite what the others’ ‘ve been sayin’, and look where it got me!” Another missed swing and Marco couldn't help the way his eyes narrowed, his body angled downward. “Step another  _ foot _ in my establishment again and you’ll catch a lot more than a free meal, you hear me? I betta’ ain’t  _ ever _ catch your ass back here!” The man gave a final huff before he was stomping back into the building, slamming the door with enough force to splinter the wood around the edges. 

The boy– and Marco knew it was a  _ boy _ now, all gangly limbs and fierce defiance– hissed out a low curse under his breath. “Shitty old man.” He hunched over, wiping something dark off his cheek. Even alone his shoulders refused to fall from where they seemed permanently coiled up to his ears. Marco stepped forward off his perch and towards the little alley, his feathers flaring up the slightest amount to better illuminate the space in a dim cerulean unnoticed to the boy. “I don't need that fucker– Watch him try to stop me steal again, asshole yelling at  _ me _ when he didn't even pay enough to eat–” 

“That is bad,” Marco called out, slipping down off his rooftop ledge and onto an old barrel– and wasn’t surprised in the slightest to catch a flash of steel as the human whirled on him. Barely blinked, when that same metal buried itself deep into his plumage and straight through his chest. “You need to have more.” That was how humans worked, wasn't it? That they were supposed to give enough for what they got. Wasn't the phrase “working to put food on the table”? If this human wasn't able to do that, then it must have been a bad job, right? 

“What the _ fuck,” _ The boy breathed, voice pitching on a crack, and Marco blinked back to attention. 

He gracefully sat down, tucking his wings more neatly against his back. “Is that not right?” He asked, genuinely curious. “To eat, you need–” 

“I just stabbed a bird. I stabbed a bird, on fire, and it’s  _ talking _ to me.” 

Marco frowned. “My name is Marco. Yes, you stabbed me.” Did it still count as  _ stabbed, _ when the knife was still very-much-so lodged in his chest? He had just enough matter for the blade to remain firmly fixed in place, worn handle poking starkly out from between blue feathers. It would likely be annoying if Marco moved it around too much. Not that it mattered. Everything was temporary, including pain. He barely even felt it. “How will you get food to eat?” 

The human’s eyes were wide, it’s mouth gaping but silent. Marco wondered, not for the first time, where he had once again misstepped in the conversation. He didn’t have to think long– mind going blissfully blank as now-familiar large hands scooped him up and off the barrel. 

Gentle fingers carefully rearranged his tail feathers to drape over a scarred wrist. Newgate’s eyes were fixed intently on the boy somehow even more tense and pale than before. He didn't even acknowledge how Marco’s talons fumbled trying to curl around his fingers, slicing thin lines across his palms. “Who’s your new friend, Marco?” He rumbled quietly. His eyes flicked down for only a moment, just long enough to catch on the blade– and the small human looked remarkably sick when he calmly reached down to pull it out. Somehow managed to look even sicker, when the blade made its new home thrown somewhere behind them into the dark. “It seems you’ve been busy.” 

_ We will talk about this later, _ his expression said. Marco was starting to get good at recognizing that one. “He say he cannot eat,” He said instead. “The human inside does not give enough.” 

Newgate nodded seriously to himself, mouth pressing into a tight line as his gaze again scanned over the boy. Caught on thin wrists and hollowed cheeks, on ragged, fraying clothes and dirty skin. “He is  _ hungry,” _ He corrected. “It’s called hunger, Marco.” When Marco didn't respond beyond an absent hum, his lips thinned further. To the boy, he said, “We have food to spare, if it’ll do.” 

Marco could see it when the boy tensed. His ragged clothing did nothing to hide the thin lines of muscle rigid under the pirate’s casual scrutiny. His mouth opened and closed, gaping around words likely more violent than the human wanted to risk, faced with Newgate’s mass. 

They waited in silence until the boy’s jaw clicked quietly shut. Newgate smiled patiently, turning on his heels without hesitation back towards the ship. Marco didn't know what had just signified the captain’s movement, but he didn’t in all honesty care enough to wonder. He was plenty fine just hitching a ride, in the human’s massive hands. 

Sure enough, a tell-tale patter of much smaller feet stumbled after them. Marco followed the pirate’s example in ignoring it, focused more on how fingers pressed against his chest. Warm, firm– so delicate in their ministrations, as if they didn't have strength enough to wring the phoenix flat. Carefully nudging smoldering feathers aside with conscientious attention that made Marco’s eyes slip shut; almost made him give in and lean into the touches. If he pressed himself low enough into the dip of that contact, he would no doubt be able to feel Newgate’s steady heartbeat throughout his entire body. 

When he opened his eyes, he was being lowered down to settle on top of the table in Newgate’s makeshift kitchen. 

Jozu nodded at him calmly from where he was stirring a pot of something. Marco tried to smell it, but without being able to see anything besides the red color on Jozu’s spoon he couldn't make out what the other was trying to make. The boy awkwardly stood across from Marco. He hesitated to sit down even when Newgate pulled a chair up for him, looking more and more uncomfortable when Jozu placed a bowl of the stuff from the pot in front of him. 

“Sit and eat,” The man grumbled. Marco craned his head up in mild interest as a second bowl was slid under his nose. Steaming and hot, red as a sunset. Marco had absolutely no idea what it was supposed to be. “You can glare at us later when you’ve actually got some food on you. You’re skin and bones, brat.” Jozu got a hiss for that one, but the boy still snatched the spoon from the bowl with the haste of someone not risking it being taken from him. 

_ Humans are supposed to eat every week, aren't they? _ Marco wondered. The soup was being sucked down alarmingly fast.  _ He must not have eaten this week. _ The kid barely even looked up from his bowl even when Newgate heavily settled onto a barrel between them. Instead, the human gestured at the bowl saddled in front of the phoenix. “Aren't going to try it?” He asked. The question was oddly stilted, something in the tone flat and overly casual in a way Marco was just beginning to realize wasn't entirely normal. (He didn't do it to Jozu, but he did it for the child– maybe Jozu was the weird one. It wasn't his business, then.) “It’s tomato soup, Marco.” 

Marco had no idea what a tomato was. It sounded vaguely familiar, but all he could think of when he looked down at the soup was  _ red. _

...He wasn't very interested in trying it. 

Newgate seemed to see that on his face, even if Marco didn't say anything. He just sighed quietly, turning back to the human child. 

“What’s your name, son?” He asked. It took a moment– the boy was still very fixated on his now-empty bowl. Fingers twitching towards it as if he was contemplating just wiping it clean with his bare hands. He froze when he noticed Newgate looking at him and the pirate only patiently repeated the question. 

“I’m not telling you shit,” He mumbled. 

His whole body went stiff when Newgate laughed heartily. “Don’t be shy,” He coaxed, the corners of his eyes creasing with amusement, “If you indulge this old man, I’ll give you some more soup.” 

The boy’s eyes fell onto Marco's untouched bowl. Flicked back up. Trained back onto the bowl. Even behind dirty brown locks of hair, Marco could see it plainly when his eye twitched. “Thatch,” he eventually bit out. “It’s Thatch, dammit. Give me the shitty soup.” Despite his words, he still flinched when Newgate laughed– missing the way the older man’s expression softened around the edges knowingly in favor of making grabby hands when he slid the second bowl over to the boy. Marco watched it be seized with the same wild intensity as the first. 

“Nice to meet you, Thatch,” Newgate said happily. “I am Edward Newgate, and this is Marco–” His hand patted Marco’s back lightly and the phoenix hoped neither noticed his shiver. Both occupants startled when he stood back up, making for the door. 

“You’re leaving?” Thatch asked incredulously. His hands were still tight enough to tremble, around the rim of the bowl. “You’re fine with me just–” His mouth shut quickly. Marco could see his adam’s apple bob nervously. 

“Marco can keep an eye out if you plan to cause any trouble,” Newgate replied blithely. He only grinned when Marco shot up, staring at him. “Finish your soup. Jozu and I will be just outside if you want more.” 

Newgate walked out, leaving Thatch to eat in moderate privacy, and immediately Marco could feel the human staring at him. 

He paused in his preening. No distinctive clinks of cutlery or dishes, no squeak of floorboards. Marco looked up from his feathers and met Thatch’s gaze head-on. The boy jumped at his movement but didn't stop staring at him. 

“Keep eat,” Marco said casually. “Do you not hunger now?” The words weren't quite right, but this time the human didn't even seem to take notice. All of his attention remained firmly, uncomfortably fixated on Marco. The phoenix leaned in, peering at him carefully and blinking when his move made the boy lean back in his chair. 

_ “What are you playing at,” _ Thatch hissed, and  _ Oh, _ Marco remembered, _ that expression means anger. _

“I do not understand.” 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Marco craned his head, confused. He didn't think Thatch was stupid. That was only his opinion though– maybe the human was. It wasn't as if he had known him for long. Just long enough to be stabbed and eat some soup. Was he supposed to think young humans were stupid? “I stabbed you less than an hour ago. Your captain saw it– Excuse me for doubting he’ll let it slide just because you look fine!” 

That didn't make anything about the situation less confusing. Why would it matter whether Newgate had seen Thatch stab him? Marco got stabbed all the time. Thatch didn't look impressed by his silence. “I may be some kid, or a brat, or a street rat, but I’m not so stupid to think your crew took me here just to feed me. Pirates don't  _ pity _ people.” That was even more confusing. He was right that pirates weren't the type to pity people– Marco didn't need to interact with humans himself to know that. Thatch said it himself, why would he think that Newgate took him out of pity? 

“Whatever you want from me,” Thatch grit out, “Just hurry up and fucking  _ take it. _ I can’t keep pretending this shit, just fucking–” 

Marco startled, eyes widening slightly as Thatch’s chair screeched across the floorboards. The human leaped to his feet, expression equally furious and something insecure, something Marco couldn't yet discern– “I– I do not understand,” He rushed out. The ever-present static in the back of his head reared, hissing like a cobra, and Marco could vaguely feel wood splintering under his talons. “I do not understand,” He said again, “I am– confused?” The word rolled awkwardly off his tongue, stilted and strange– but the lull it threw into the conversation had Thatch slowing. Sloughing off frantic energy until they were left at an uncomfortable standstill, Thatch’s half-eaten bowl of soup still cooling between them. 

“...You don't understand,” Thatch repeated. 

He was back to staring. Unblinking, eyes wide– but something indescribable to Marco had been knocked loose, this time. “I am confused,” He said slowly, “What do you think I want?” Perhaps Thatch thought he was lying. Maybe the human thought Marco was trying to trick him, play with him the way humans often tried, with Marco. Trapping and caging, yanking out feathers as they go– but that explained nothing to Marco. Why would he bother trying to lie to Thatch? There was nothing to gain there. What could he possibly want, in Thatch’s eyes? 

Now the human looked just as confused as Marco felt– and that really wasn’t fair. What would they solve, if neither of them had an answer? “To hold it over me?” He offered hesitantly. When Marco just stared back at him he slowly righted his chair and sat back down. “Like for blackmail. Use the captain to force me into stuff.” 

Marco frowned. “ _ ‘Force you into stuff?’ _ Is that what blackmail is used for?” Blackmail wasn't exactly a word he was familiar with. One thing he was certain of, though; “I think you have made a mistake.” What had Jozu called it, before? When he had assumed the human was going to try and kill him that first time? “Jump to conclusions?” 

He had no idea what expression might have managed to be recognizable, on his face. It must have been enough to convey  _ something _ important, with how Thatch slumped in defeat. “Do you even know what that means?” He moaned. The words sounded as if they were meant to be an insult, but Marco, even in his limited familiarity with modern English nuance, could not detect any real venom. Not compared to how Thatch had been practically spitting with it before. “You  _ really _ don't care that I  _ stabbed _ you? Did it even  _ hurt?” _

_ Did it hurt?  _

Marco hummed to himself, bending his neck in a somewhat awkward bobbing motion he had seen Newgate and Jozu both do. “I suppose,” He eventually said. It hadn't, but it probably should have. Being stabbed was  _ meant _ to be painful, wasn't it? Marco hadn't even truly registered it when the blade had been sticking out of him– and by the time he was bothered to pay any amount of attention the knife was thrown somewhere into the alley and the hole in his chest was healed over. 

He was pretty certain things like that were  _ supposed _ to hurt. Maybe Thatch was just too weak. Still a boy, even with the baby fat sunken off his cheeks. “If you work hard, it might hurt.” Newgate was a strong human. If Thatch stayed with him, he’d no doubt become much stronger– maybe strong enough to make it hurt, when he next stabbed Marco. Maybe strong enough to kill him. 

_ “Are you making fun of me?” _ Thatch’s face twisted back into familiar anger, brow scrunching tight and tense. He always looked so ready to start a fight, whether he’d win it or not. Were all humans so foolhardy? 

The door opened again behind Marco. He didn't bother glancing up to see who it was, returning casually to preening his feathers down even as he continued to speak. “If you stay, you will be good.” Thatch was silent. His shoulders were pressed back up to his ears as Newgate’s steady footsteps led the older human towards Thatch’s cooling soup. The captain was visibly listening despite his silence. Marco didn't need to look up to know he was waiting for something, though he wasn't sure what– just kept talking to fill the silence. “Stay, and be strong. Then you can try again, and kill me.” He could certainly try. The thought was almost enough to be interesting. 

“You’re  _ insane,”  _ Thatch murmured under his breath. 

Newgate paused beside Marco as he leaned down to pick up Thatch’s forgotten soup, his free hand dipping to stroke lightly down the phoenix’s flank. “Your soup is cold,” He noted casually, gesturing towards the bowl, “Would you like me to reheat it?” His words were calm and quiet, his eyes never lingering– but Marco could feel the weight of his palm on his back. His feathers licked up the sides of broad fingers. 

_ We will talk about this later, _ Marco was reminded. 

He must have missed whatever happened. The next time he blinked, Newgate returned the bowl with a dim clatter to the table and was already leaving again– waving a “Play nice,” through the door still swinging open behind him. 

Thatch just stared at the soup. His lips thin, pressed white; once again, the human’s expression was lost on Marco. He looked up when Marco shook out his wings. An uncertain look crossed his face, twisted and conflicted– and Marco didn't care. He had spent enough of his energy pretending to do so. 

Neither of them said a word as Marco flit through the door and was gone. 

* * *

“Are you going to be staying?” 

Marco abruptly swerved in the air to touch down on the edge of the yard rather than landing down by the railing as he usually did, curling his talons to avoid slicing the sails. If he focused, he could faintly feel Newgate still below deck, but Jozu and Thatch were standing by the gangway. 

His keen eyes, even high above the two humans, caught on Thatch’s foot anchored just over the edge of the ship. 

“Of course not,” The boy snapped. “I stayed for the food– you can't keep me here. I’m leaving.” 

Jozu did not touch him. Didn't reach out or grab him, like Marco was sure he would. None of the easy signs, the tug of tendons under the skin or the He just stood back and crossed his arms with an expression like stone. His eyes hadn't even strayed from Thatch’s when the smaller human slowly reached to brace a hand on the rail bordering his exit. 

It was that, apparently, that singular little motion that Thatch chose to take issue with. 

“What, not going to try and force me to stay?” He hissed out. His face flushed, fingers turning white against the wood as if the blood in his body had redirected towards his cheeks. “You sure your  _ captain _ is gonna be okay with you just watchin’ me leave?” Marco didn't really understand why Thatch would care about what Whitebeard was okay with, but if Jozu was confused himself none of it showed on his face. Marco was starting to wonder whether the man was actually human after all, with his statue-esque disposition. 

“Do you even have somewhere to go?” It didn't sound angry. Didn't sound like anything, actually– just as deadpan as everything Jozu seemed to do– but although blunt it wasn't cold. Marco doubted even Newgate’s constant attention could turn a human like that into someone openly warm or affectionate. But his words were casual for all that they were frank– just enough to have Thatch’s shoulders rise in defense without ever actually making a move to act on it. 

“I-I do! I can— I’ll just—“ 

“The guy Marco said wouldn’t let you eat. You were staying with him.” Marco could hear the click of Thatch’s teeth when his jaw clamped shut. The two humans just stared at each other for a long moment, Jozu with his unfailing detachment and Thatch flushing crimson as his hands clenched into shaking fists. Despite his posture, there was no anger in Jozu’s tone or body language that Marco could recognize. There wasn't much of anything, actually– but it was clear Thatch must have seen something Marco couldn't, with how the teenager was avoiding his eyes. “You have nowhere else to go, kid. I don't know much about Newgate or the first-mate, but we can take you to the next island. Get you out of here.” 

_ Start somewhere fresh, somewhere new. _ A spiel Marco was startlingly, terribly familiar with. 

(Everything about the conversation seemed familiar. A touch too close, like heated metal just far enough to bare skin to burn but not blister. Fraying at the edges without falling apart, blurry peripherals and unavoidable deja vu–)

(Just what was he missing?) 

“...just to the next island?”

“No one is stopping you.”

Neither human was speaking. Thatch’s eyes bored into the deck, avoiding Jozu’s heavy stare. 

Marco’s feathers ruffled impatiently. Whatever they were trying to do was taking too long, and he was starting to squirm under the rising feeling of something hot and restless under his skin. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. 

It settled when thatch stepped away from the gangplank. Hands at his sides, feet on the deck— “Where do I sleep?” He asked glumly, and Marco took off for the sky to avoid startling either human with his sudden need to sing. 

He barely made it above the crows nest before his wings were tilting down almost without his consent. Careening down abruptly enough to nearly shred the wood of the crow’s nest redirecting towards where Newgate sat smooshed into the tiny space. 

* * *

Jozu was rather pleased with himself, honestly. 

He may be new to this... raggedly little crew of two, and now three— but now it was becoming more and more likely that it was going to be  _ four _ and  _ he _ was the cause for it. 

Not that he missed Marco listening in. The Phoenix really needed to be told he lacked subtlety. What kind of idiot was going to miss a massive fire bird? 

(Thatch, apparently. They’d work that out of him yet, if he stayed, and Jozu had a strong feeling he would.) 

“You’ll be bunking with me, we have some extra hammocks laying around somewhere.” He was certain of it. Unless Newgate or Marco moved them— and neither of them really had a reason to bother to enter the little barracks— he had seen them in his initial little survey of the ship. It helped that a smaller vessel made searching easier. 

Thatch was quiet behind him. Jozu straightened, hammock in hand, to see the teenagers face scrunched up in confusion. “Pirates sleep together?” He muttered under his breath, then looked up at Jozu, “then does Marco sleep with Newgate? There’s only one hammock up, and I don’t know how you’ve managed to get any sleep with him glowing like that.”

_ Two hammocks _ , soon, but Jozu didn’t correct him. “It’s not a problem.” It genuinely wasn’t. He had never been woken prematurely by Marco, despite being a light sleeper. The Phoenix was as unobtrusive as a massive burning bird could be if he bothered to really think about it. Granted, he didn’t spend his nights in the cabin. Or at the very least, Jozu hadn’t noticed him inside of it for any given period of time. He doubted even Marco could manage to slip in and out without him noticing regardless of his abilities. 

He set about tying the ropes firmly to the ceiling as he spoke. “Newgate sleeps in the captain’s quarters. Maybe if this was a smaller ship he’d be in here with us. Marco—“ 

He paused.  _ Where did Marco sleep? _

Come to think of it, he wasn’t... entirely sure he had ever seen Marco asleep in the first place. Or eat. Or do much more than stare at them blankly. 

(He always looked like he had just woken up from a thousand years coma, or something. As if he was both not seeing them and seeing them all at once. But if Newgate wasn’t going to say anything, neither would he. It wasn’t his business what problems Marco had as long as it didn’t get them all killed somehow.)

“I’m not sure if Marco needs sleep.” He hadn’t eaten and likely couldn’t drink water. Maybe Marco got energy by doing nothing but lying in the sun. It would make sense, with how much he did exactly that and nothing else— always making Newgate climb the mast to check on him. Not that his new captain couldn’t handle it, but it would explain a least one or two of Marco’s... less-than-human quirks. 

Thatch had a really weird look on his face. Still twisted into something uncomfortable. He just nodded silently in thanks when Jozu finished. 

Whatever. He had other things to do than unravel another strange crewmate’s need for therapy.

* * *

Language was still (and forever, at this rate) a problem. Marco didn’t expect the humans to be master linguists, but he had maybe just a little bit hoped that he’d be farther along by now with enough exposure. But Thatch spoke largely in modern slang, missing vowels and consonants enough to force him to take extra time just to parse through what the fledgling said. Jozu was quiet on a good day. 

Newgate spoke plenty, without more prompting needed beyond the presence of any of his crew– Marco included. Most of Marco’s kindling vocabulary came from the man. But every so often, Newgate seemed to thrive on Marco’s own ignorance. 

Most times, he could count on Jozu to fill in the blanks. For being a pirate more than ready to enact violence, the man was surprisingly reliable in curbing Thatch before Marco could pick up any weird quirks– much more than Newgate himself. The look he had given Thatch the first time Marco trilled out a hoarse “motherfucker” made the chick escape to the kitchen for most of the day. 

However. 

There were tiny white feathers growing on Newgate’s face. 

Marco had no idea what to do about it. Did Newgate know? He didn't seem to be worried, but they were getting longer every day and Marco was starting to get antsy. It framed the human’s face very differently, to have something new obstructing part of his features. What if it covered his mouth? 

(Newgate wouldn't be able to smile anymore. Something about that was unnerving, unsettling. Marco had only just learned what that movement meant, all quirked lips and crinkled eyes– Thatch had yelled at him for doing it too much, which didn't make any sense to Marco. Why stop making such a nice expression? It made him feel warm, somehow.) 

_ “He’s growing a mustache,” _ Jozu said to him. As if that was a real word. 

Marco gave up.

* * *

They were a small crew. Just a handful of mismatched people, all with completely different and yet equally strange quirks. All with their own overlapping and intersecting dreams and futures, under the same ship, under the same flag, and yet– 

“Hey, I know I agreed to sail with you guys to the next island, but who actually are you?” 

Marco blinked. Turned for answers, and only was met with the sight of Newgate and Jozu also blinking.

Thatch made a face like he had smelled something bad, immediately making all of Marco’s feathers fluff up without knowing why. He wasn't sure what Thatch was upset about, but he was almost certain that wasn't a positive human expression. “...Not to be an asshole,” He began, slowly, “But do you seriously not have a crew name yet?” His eyes shifted to Marco and back, brows raising high. “You have a first mate and a ship and not a name? Do you even have a flag?” Whitebeard laughed, startling the teenager. “Are you guys even actual pirates?!”

“Were not marines,” Jozu finally settled for. If he was bothered by Marco staring he didn't show it. 

_ What the hell is a marine? _

“A name!” Newgate chortled, “Completely slipped my mind!” He seemed completely unaffected by the looks being given to him. ”An excellent point, son!” 

“I’m not your son!” Thatch flushed as Newgate only laughed harder. 

Marco hadn't spoken at all during the exchange, and Jozu glanced at him. It was normal for Marco to be quiet. He just wasn't very good at remembering words, nor actively remembering to say them– more often than not it was just easier to say nothing. Yet Jozu was still staring at him. 

“What is…” Now Newgate and Thatch were looking too. Quiet, staring at him. Marco ducked his head, unsure why his chest clenched uneasily at their eyes. “What is a crew name?” Or a marine, or a flag, for that matter. Marco had seen plenty of flags on ships before, but it was just a strip of colored cloth as far as he was concerned– but if Thatch felt the need to point it out, maybe it was something else entirely. Something Marco had missed, again. 

(Or once known, and forgotten. He still hadn't decided which was worse and was starting to think he never would.) 

Marco snapped out of his thoughts when a hand nudged against his talons. Newgate smiled down at him when he looked up, frozen, and didn't move even when Marco didn't move for several seconds before stepping up onto the offered wrist. Newgate never wore sleeves, but Marco was big enough to be able to curl his claws near entirely around his arm. He perched easily and painlessly for the human to step over towards the mast. “All pirates are known by a certain name,” he explained patiently. Marco watched absently as he waved Jozu off below deck with a hand motion he hadn't seen before. “It's used to identify every pirate under one name, like how families have last names.” 

_ Right. He had forgotten humans did that– and Newgate wanted a family, didn't he? So of course–– _

“All pirates, Marco, not just us. It honestly slipped my mind.” 

_...Oh.  _

Jozu returned with a large black cloth folded over one arm. He waited for Newgate to nod before he set about fiddling with it around the mast, ignoring Marco’s staring as he worked. “All pirates have a crew name, and all of them have a black flag with a skull and bones,” Newgate continued. His eyes shot to Thatch, still standing and listening in without a word. “We’ve had such smooth sailing largely in part to us forgetting to raise a flag signifying we're pirates. There's more of us now, and our flag is just black at the moment, but once it’s up we’ll start catching the attention of any nearby marines.” 

That … didn't make sense. Why would a “marine” care about the color of a piece of cloth either? Humans and their habits were starting to make Marco’s head spin. He didn't bother asking this time. His interest ran out once Newgate’s explanation did. 

If it really  _ was _ important, he’d find out whether he wanted to or not. 

* * *

He was right. He was right and no one even had to say it. 

Barely a handful of hours passed before there was a ship of humans in white trying to drown them. 

At least Marco had something to watch. 

* * *

As it turned out, “Marines” were just other humans. The only way Marco could tell the difference was due to the pure white clothing they wore. Other than that, they were just more humans carrying guns and swords. He wasn't entirely sure what separated them from the other humans he had met, beyond the colors. 

They had ignored him at first. A few had visibly frozen when he flew down from the mast to watch, but for the most part, they had shaken whatever they thought of him off and returned to trying to stab one of Marco’s humans. 

Marco also quickly learned that Jozu could turn very, very  _ shiny _ when he wanted to. He was pretty certain humans weren’t  _ supposed _ to do that– but Newgate laughed and patted his shoulder when he saw it, so it must have been a good thing. If Jozu could feel Marco staring, he never bothered to ask why. 

Even Thatch was holding his own, for the most part. Darting between older humans with a thin little dagger in both his hands. His face had done something interesting when Marco had flown in the path of a bullet meant for him, which was new– Marco just made a mental note to do it again until he could figure it out. He doubted Thatch would willingly tell him anything, after all. 

“Watch the white-mustached guy,” One marine yelled, leveling a large tube-thing at Newgate, “He’s planning something!” and Marco cocked his head to the side. He recognized that word– the  _ stupid _ one, the one about the little feathers on Newgate’s face– 

The marine shrieked when the phoenix landed on the tube-thing, talons curling carefully around the barrel. “Mustache,” He asked, and completely ignored Jozu’s distant grumble of  _ “Damn it, Marco, That’s not important” _ in favor of leaning closer to the rapidly paling human. “What is a mustache? You said mustache.” The marine wasn't answering him, eyes wide and hands shaking. Marco fought the urge to begin hissing. What was so awful about a mustache that no one was willing to talk about them? Was Newgate birthing a monster? 

(“ _ Does he really do this to everyone?” _ Thatch asked, bewildered. 

Jozu just sighed. “ _ You’re not the first and you won’t be the last, kid.” _ )

The tube was heating under Marco’s feet alarmingly fast. It was a little irritating, suddenly standing on something so stiflingly hot— the human shrieked when the metal  _ crunched _ under his talons. What an overreaction, he was just denting the surface a little. A tiny taste of what his claws could do. Claws situated rather close to a fragile, breakable, non-metal human. 

“K-Kill it!” The human yelled, trying to yank away, and Marco huffed. He recognized that word too, unfortunately. It wasn't as interesting as the mustache one. He could vaguely hear Thatch cursing when he took off again, uncaring for the bits of heated shrapnel that slammed into his body as the tube exploded under him. The pain was newer, sharp and searing, but was gone in the time it took to flap once. All that was left was the phantom pulse of a burn wound and shrinking aches from bullets. The usual. Nothing new. “It-It talked, It _spoke_ to me, it must have a devil fruit or something, _one of them––_ _kill it––”_

_ How annoying. _

(He could have crushed him. Could have sliced the human to pieces, easy as that. Could have plucked him off the deck and dropped him somewhere less nice and dry– but that all took energy he couldn't care to waste. What were a few bullets between his feathers? The pain never lasted. Nothing ever lasted.)

Marco circled, intent on simply returning to the mast. Without answers he was just  _ bored _ again, there was no point sticking around. Not when he knew his humans would be fine. They were holding their own without him needing to–

An undented tube, the one full of pain and red-non-burning-fire, leveled at Newgate’s exposed back–– and Marco’s thoughts became a shrill and uncomfortable quiet. 

He swerved directly into the path. 

The screech of pain surprised even him when it tore out of his throat– the full, unfiltered agony of limbs ripping off of him blinding and surreal. The wing he lost vanished like a candle flickering out in the wind. Even feeling his new wing flare up in its place failed to remove the lingering pain of sinew and bone violently shredding to cinders. The new stump of his right leg was still mending. It all ached so  _ fresh _ he could barely focus on flying straight, barely even registered himself slamming into the shooter with all the violent thrashing of a tornado with talons. 

The majority of the blast had been canceled, thankfully. Barely any damage to the ship. Newgate stared up at him with eyes wide and face bloodied– but it was the remains of Marco’s charred leg on the deck by his feet that had painted him, and so Marco didn't pay it any mind. 

Blood roaring in his ears, he barely did more than squawk when Jozu appeared out of nowhere and yanked him straight out of the air. 

They landed like a cannon-ball back to the deck. Nearly smashed straight through the floorboards. Marco struggled uselessly. His new talons scraped painfully loud against diamond flesh.  _ “Stop,”  _ Jozu said, and for the first time since Marco had met him the human sounded coldly  _ furious. _ “Don’t move.” 

It was inexplicable, the way rage boiled through the cold. Did he think Marco was  _ stupid? _ Did he think Marco would listen just because another human told him to  _ stop, _ to  _ stay still, _ to stay  _ submissive _ and  _ caged _ and—

Newgate seemed frozen in time. His eyes remained fixed on Marco as if he had never seen him before. 

Marco went still. 

He didn't twitch as Jozu shouldered his way below deck, checking a few of the more obnoxious marines so hard they ended up either overboard or unconscious. Didn’t twitch even as he was put down, on the bed they used for a temporary medical bay whenever Thatch burned himself in the kitchen. Didn't twitch even as Jozu roughly told him to  _ “Stay here” _ before slamming the door with a click behind him. Didn’t twitch, didn’t move, didn’t breathe. 

Marco stayed still, and he waited. 

_ What did I do wrong? _


	3. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Communication is healthy.

By the time the pain had slowed down into something quiet and throbbing, ignorable, the noise above deck had stopped. 

He was not kept waiting for long. Almost immediately, he could recognize the sound of Newgate’s steady footsteps vibrating solidly through the floor, shadowed by Jozu’s heavy steps and Thatch’s lighter scamper. The door nearly broke the wall when it was pushed open. 

“Marco,” Newgate started, breathless as if he hadn't seen him for years rather than maybe an hour– and Marco wondered again where he had irreversibly fucked up. “We need to talk.” 

_All of us_ went unsaid. Even Thatch was remarkably quiet, for once. His face had been shadowed since he came in and sat down on the edge of the bed, farthest from them all. He wouldn't meet Marco’s eyes. Jozu and Newgate both pulled up the stools they kept by the desk. They looked far too serious, for how awkwardly they were both forced to perch on such little chairs– but neither of them were laughing. 

Marco swallowed. 

“Marco,” Newgate said again, softer. He didn't move, didn't try to touch Marco– and yet he found himself flinching away anyway. His heart was rocketing and he wasn’t even sure why. This wasn't a tone he had heard, wasn’t sure why it was _hurting_ him. _“Marco._ You can't keep doing this, son.” 

_Doing what? What did I– Where did I screw up? Why do you keep_ looking _at me like that?_

“Why did you fly into that launcher shot, Marco?” He didn't even know what a launcher _was._ Did they mean the tube? Was this supposed to be about the _tube?_ If they didn’t want him to touch it, they should have said something. How was he supposed to know? How was… “Yes, the rocket launcher. The one that _tore two of your limbs off in front of us.”_

Marco wanted to wail. Wanted to scream, if it meant he felt less– less _tight,_ on the inside. Less weird and frayed and–– _I don't understand._ “They pointed it at you.” 

“I know. Why did you fly in front of it?” 

_I don't understand._ “Because they pointed it at you.” 

Newgate’s face shuttered. Jozu’s hands cracked loudly, the crystal grinding audibly as he clenched them into fists. Thatch still wasn’t meeting his eyes. “You could have died, Marco.” 

No, he wouldn't. “No, I would not.” He knew better. They knew better. Why was this happening? 

“You were badly hurt, Marco.” 

A leg, a wing. Only for a moment. But he was starting to think that wasn’t what they wanted to hear. “Yes.” 

That didn't seem to be the answer his humans wanted. Marco’s head tilted, feathers raising along his back. He had been hurt. That was the truth– so why did they keep– why were they still looking at him like that? He had given the only answer he had. 

“Did...Did you _know_ that the launcher would hurt you?” Thatch asked, cutting in with a voice quietly grating in his throat as if he hadn’t decided whether he wanted it to come out yet. “Do you even know what a rocket launcher is?” _What a gun is, what a knife is,_ his eyes said. “Did you even understand what was going on, when we met and I—“ His hands fisted in the hem of his pants. 

Of course he knew. He knew that Thatch had stabbed him and he knew he had been shot. It wasn't the first time, after all. Jozu and Thatch both had seen him land on “guns”. They had even tried to shove him how it worked, once, when Thatch had been making the warm-good expression and made the wheezing noise when he tried to hold it–– They even had seen him be been hit by edges of one of the attacks before, so why would they need to ask? _What was left to be confused over?_ “Yes.”

“And you still flew.”

“That is why I flew.” How could he not? Newgate’s back was open, and he had already been flayed once. Newgate could not heal. Newgate was not sky and fire. Newgate was human flesh and aching bones and blood. “You would have been hurt.” 

Thatch made a quiet sound, bitten back and angered, and Marco was only stopped from turning to ask him if he was okay by Newgate carefully leaning forward to scoop him up into his hands. 

“Marco,” He said. His face was more serious than Marco had seen. More serious than it was even in the beginning. “Marco, I _don't want you to do this again,_ okay?” 

_I don't understand._

“You shouldn’t do things you know will hurt you. I would have been fine. A captain is nothing without the trust of his crew.” 

_You would have been hurt._

“It doesn't always matter if you can heal. So can I.” 

_It’s not the same._ We _are not the same. I will always be faster. I cannot die. Nothing will work, nothing ever works– why would you deny me this?_ _The first human I am willing to suffer for and he does not want me._

A hand, roughly calloused and endlessly gentle, stroking down his feathers. “Do you understand, Marco? It’s one thing to be absentminded, but– _this––_ Don't do it again.” 

_(Why won't you let me do this for you?)_

“Okay,” He said. 

* * *

It would be fine. The tension was still all too noticeable, in the air. Thatch hadn't lifted his gaze from the floor for the rest of the day. But the marines were cleaned up, the ship patched the best they could– and Marco could still hear his humans laughing rigidly over a barrel of rum. 

It would be fine. It was just another battle, and Marco had had his fair share. 

(He did what he felt he had to. He would not hesitate to do it again, no matter what he promised.)

He was a phoenix, and humans promised him things all the time and never pulled through. He was allowed this. He would do what he wanted. 

Marco refused to let any human stop him. Even if it was to stop him from hurting himself. 

* * *

“Oh hey, look, we all have bounty posters now.” 

Marco glanced up from his preening as Thatch perked up from his moping, nearly knocking his chair over in his rush to scramble over to Jozu’s side. The man just patiently waited until the teenager was at his side before spreading out the papers properly for them all to see. “See? Came with the News Coo today.”

Thatch grabbed one of them. Marco could just see the corner of Thatch’s hair, flying into his face. “Oh wow,” He exclaimed, brows high, “No kidding, there’s–” his hand suddenly shot out, snatching one from the bottom of the pile. Marco blinked in confusion as he gaped at it. _“Marco_ got one?!” Newgate leaned over Thatch’s shoulder and his entire face lit up. 

The captain let out a loud guffaw, picking up his own bounty poster and sitting back down without a word. Thatch looked apocalyptic when he turned to face him. “You’re a _bird,”_ He whined, “Why the hell do _you_ get a higher bounty than me?!” He shook the paper in Marco’s face, jabbing at the symbols in a repetitive, furious gesture. “You didn't even do anything! Do you even _know_ how to fight?!”

Marco just blinked at him. Thatch groaned loudly, face planting into the poster. 

“He can’t read yet, Thatch,” Jozu reminded him, and Thatch just groaned louder. 

“A glorified parrot got a bounty thousands of berries higher than mine,” He mumbled mournfully. “Marco can't even _read._ He can't even read how he got a higher fuckin’ bounty than me. This is torture.” Whatever question Marco was going to ask first was cut off by a loud chuckle. They all turned as Newgate coughed out another surprised laugh, eyes scanning his poster a second, a third time. 

“They called me Whitebeard,” He said, turning his poster to their inquisitive gazes.

A beat.

Marco opened his beak.

“...I do not _have_ a beard, Marco.”

Marco closed his beak with a clack. 

“Marco got a higher bounty than me and Newgate’s epithet has _nothing to do with him,”_ Thatch blurted out again, scandalized, “What next? Jozu, what did they call you?” 

“Diamond Jozu.” 

“Are you _kidding_ me?! _Why do you get the normal one?!”_

“I think I like the name Whitebeard,” Newgate admitted with a laugh. “Would make a decent pirate name, don't you think?” 

Thatch gave him a particularly fatalistic look. Marco wondered if he needed to intervene, somewhere. Newgate, as usual, seemed utterly unaffected, turning to Marco with eyes seeming to sparkle a little. “What do you think, Marco? The Whitebeard pirates?” 

_Didn't Newgate say he doesn't have a beard? What’s the point, then?_

The human’s face was creased, lips quirking up and cheeks glowing with mirth. Marco looked up towards the black flag, still empty and void high above them. 

_It’d be kind of funny. I think._

“I like it,” He said, and Thatch made a sound like he was dying. 

* * *

“Extra! Extra! Extras on discount– a pirate ship carrying the new “Whitebeard Pirates”, as well as their official insignia, as acclaimed by marine headquarters, takes out another government ship! What could this mean for the Grandline?! Stay alert, always keep your local forces on call!”

“Bwahahaha! Aren't they a budding riot,” Garp crowed. Sengoku just glared at him, swiping the newspaper being waved relentlessly in his face. “Take a look at ‘er, Senny, a whole new crew to–” His eyes glinted ominously– _“–tango_ with.” 

Sengoku just rolled his eyes. He was still young yet, but sometimes Garp made him feel the inevitable creak in his bones a little too early. Ignoring the marine, he peered down at the paper in his hands. 

...and hissed through his teeth. “He doesn't look weak,” He noted. Garp leaned over his deck, still cackling even as Sengoku’s eyes traced Whitebeard’s massive form warily. “Neither do his crew.” Though none of them were as immediately imposing as Whitebeard himself, Sengoku could tell even at first glance that this was not a crew of pushovers. Musculature (if only budding– was that a _preteen?_ Were pirates now adopting children?) in the right places, weapons in confident hands. Even the parrot– _is that really a parrot,_ he wondered, and ignored how the hair stood up on the back of his neck, how forcefully ignored and vague recognition _(the nobles wanted a bird. A pretty one, with feathers as brilliantly azure as if the sun had filtered the sea through her rays–)_ turned his hands cold and clammy. “He’s just starting out?” 

“Well, no, actually. Was with the Rocks pirates for a while, I think.”

Sengoku could feel it. He was going to go on record as the first person to ever actively feel their hair turning gray. “You _think.”_

“It’ll be more interesting this way anyway,” Garp hummed, picking at his nose idly, and Sengoku just forced down another hissing breath of air instead of smacking him and getting in trouble. 

* * *

The battles were boring more than anything, but at least his human companions looked interested. 

Marco watched absently as the pistol leveled at his chest sent two bullets through him, eyes tracing the twin little spiral of blue flames following the path out of his back. 

The shooter was somehow getting paler and paler by the second. His hand shook violently around the gun. “What the fuck _are_ you?!” He yelped, and Marco hummed in thought. He wasn't entirely sure what made the human decide to aim for him, out of all of them– he had been plenty content to watch from the rails as the humans all fought. Maybe he just glowed a little too brightly? There wasn't much he could do to dampen that… 

His vision winked out in his left eye and he craned his gaze back up to the human as it reformed, mildly annoyed. The sting was short and bright, just a brief twinge of what might be pain– but it was distracting. Marco had enough to be distracted about already, like watching Jozu fling a marine overboard, or listening to Newgate laughing– 

A short, breathless shout made his head snap around. 

Thatch shakily stumbled back from the man in front of him. Marco watched, frozen, as he slipped in a splatter of the red pooling under him. He watched as the chick fell to his hands and knees. Marco couldn't see his face properly under all the red. He watched. He watched. Another bullet slammed through him unnoticed. His eyes were pinned to Thatch as his hands cradled the side of his face, smearing it between his fingers as blood continued to spill out of him. 

(Heat rushed through him. burning and bursting. Up through the cavity right where his heart was supposed to be. Searing cold and distantly familiar in the way ancients were. In the way that wood splintered under pressure and concrete cracked. The way flesh gave, under a fist, the tiniest fold, the smallest rush of—) 

A blade clattered, behind him. Someone shrieked. 

_“Marco?!”_

Marco watched the hummingbird flutter of a human heartbeat pulsing under his talons. 

A red streak had been dragged through the blood. It followed Marco’s tail feathers to where he now perched, running over Thatch’s hand. Below Thatch’s eyes, one screwed shut and lashes dripping with blood, the other wide where it stared unblinkingly at Marco– 

_“I'm sorry!”_ The human gasped suddenly. Bucking could not hope to budge Marco’s grip. He was anchored so deep through the floorboards that the marine’s face was turning a sickly color. The warmth bubbling up between his toes did nothing to impact the silent, frozen dispassion he was buried under. “I’m s-sorry! It was– w-was a mistake, I–” The blade. The blood. Thatch, still on his knees behind him. 

Marco felt something indescribably tight squeeze his heart as if his ribs were closing in on his insides. 

“Hurt,” He hissed, _“Hurt.”_

Blood, soaked into his feathers. Into his claws, into the floorboards. Streaming out of Thatch’s face. Did he still have an eye under it? 

_“You are the mistake,”_ Marco snarled, and bore down, talons pressing harder and harder. There was a tense gurgling sound below him, only punctuated by a single startled noise whimpering out of his human behind him. Marco felt almost blind and deaf to all else but the wetness under his feet and the pained gasps behind him. 

Almost. A tell-tale whistle of metal, of a leather hilt creaking under straining fingertips, and Marco was already launching back. 

There was a sword coming straight for Thatch again. Marco saw the glint of sunlight off the blade before he even saw the human holding it– saw that steely light arcing straight towards one of Newgate’s few crew, straight towards the street rat they had only _just_ plucked up by the scruff off the streets. 

Aiming right for Newgate’s new family. 

Marco’s wings blazed blue and gold. Talons tore free of their initial vice with a disgusting squelch and a scream he barely registered— curling around Thatch’s middle to shove him away, careful not to clip his flailing limbs as they slid through the blood. “Damn it–– _Marco–!”_

His head craned up to meet the familiar sight of an edge flying towards him. 

The whistle of a blade, too close, too near to Thatch– the curve of the blade clipping straight through the curling flames of Marco’s semi-solid body. His wings did nothing to block it. He was– useless. 

_I have nothing left to give,_ he thought. The edges of his mind spiked with unfamiliar adrenaline. _My wings will not work like this._ Wouldn't protect Thatch. Wouldn't protect anyone– he wasn't useful in his feathered form, in his _worthless, ancient––_ His wings unfolded anyway, flaring bright gold in the blue––

––and for the first time in centuries, Marco was _bleeding._

Flinching more out of shock than pain, he froze momentarily at the sight of red dripping down a solid and fleshy human hand. Human fingers, curling around the blade. Human skin, and muscle, and blood– shredded and spilling down a materializing human arm from where the sword dug into him. 

“Oh,” Marco whispered, eyes wide, and Thatch made a distressed sound utterly lost on him. 

The next moments were just as lost. Completely irrelevant. Shadowed and dull around the peripherals of that hand– _his_ hand. His very solid and _human_ hand, that ached and bled under the slide of a blade. 

_It hurts,_ he wondered, _I can't believe I could still hurt._

It was almost validating, knowing he still bled red. Knowing he still bled at all. 

Knowing, reaffirming that he was still alive to feel. To ache and break, to fray and crumble and bleed. He couldn't tear his eyes away. What if he _forgot_ again? He’d rather die than forget–– than to live another millennium without proof he even existed–– 

Thatch was on the other man in an instant, bashing the handle of one of his recovered daggers so violently into the guy’s skull that he was immediately crumbling into Marco. 

The sword went lax and Marco gripped hard on instinct. Refusing, distantly, to let it budge even as it tore into his palm. He wasn't even reacting anymore. His eyes were still wide and fixated on his hand, on the way his human flesh tore and flayed the longer, the harder, the _tighter_ he held on– 

_“–amn it,_ Marco, _let it go!_ Marco!” There were hands on his, touch a sharp burn. Cool and warm and wholly _unfamiliar, strange, unknown, forgotten, left behind,_ **_forgotten––_ **

Marco jerked away. 

The sword clattered to the deck, blood splattering across the floorboards. He had barely even dropped it, blue spitting up around the edges of his vision– before Jozu was kicking it across the deck. Barely able to do more than watch as the sword spun and caught deep into the wood of the railings across the ship. 

A new set of hands, smaller, tighter, too-hot, too-firm, _too-much and not-enough_ hands clapped roughly onto Marco’s wing– _shoulders,_ he nearly shrieked, _he’s touching me– Touching my– I have_ ** _shoulders–_** and shook him harshly. 

_“Never do that again,”_ Thatch was shouting. His mouth was moving. Over and over, repeating the words on loop even as they lost meaning. Marco could barely hear him over the fuzz in his brain. Barely feel his brain rattling in his skull over the muffling, all-encompassing panic– “Do you hear me?! We _talked_ about this, Marco–” 

Marco reached up and slapped his hands away. A pained noise ripped out of him the moment he did– borne of regret and baseless, mindless, _confused_ desperation. The abrupt need to grab them, to put them _back_ nearly overwhelmed him with more panic than he was already _drowning_ under–– blindly yanking back and tripping over his– his _human legs,_ his _very human feet, his–_

Warmth plucked him off his feet. Marco gasped like a drowning man, almost dizzy with it as his body instinctively struggled. New limbs flailing, pale and unrecognizable, everything _unfamiliar–_

“I’ve got you,” Whitebeard rumbled, and Marco could feel the tremor of his words even through his bones. “Calm down, Son, I’ve got you.” The only familiar thing Marco could feel– and he held onto it as tightly as physically possible. Fingers slipping and trembling, wet with sweat and drying blood. Held on as the world rocked under him, dim and hazy with panic. 

_“–wrong_ with him?!” He could vaguely hear. “What’s–” Something stiff and warm covered him and Marco curled in on himself as best he could. Clumsily trying to draw his new, strange, _wrong_ limbs as close as possible. Trying to hide. He had never felt so exposed before– not that he could remember, not that he could recall– not flayed open and shaking, vulnerable as if his ribcage had been pulled open for anyone to reach into–

“It’s only yourself, Marco,” Whitebeard whispered soothingly. “It’s you, and your body. I need you to use it to breathe for me, son.” that finger traced a burning line down his chest, muffled and delicate through the thick layer of fabric. _“Breathe in,”_ he commanded, and Marco’s ribs almost burst with his shaky attempt to follow that finger. To raise and fall with each rhythmic touch, pushing and pulling the air in his lungs until it was all he could focus on. Until trying to see, to _look,_ only gave him the image of the man’s massive white coat blanketing his body. Like this, he could almost pretend it wasn't there. Wasn’t real. “That’s good, keep going, okay?” 

Those hands still cradling him gently swaddled him more fully in cloth. Wrapping him like a kitten threatening to bite, pressing him down and in. Containing him, as if his body had been expanding and exploding without his consent. Whitebeard’s massive frame cut out the sight of drying blood stains. 

He almost whimpered, almost reached back out for them to come back. Touch that hurt was still _touch,_ was still proof he wasn't _alone_ with every careful brush of skin. But that would mean speaking, would mean _moving–_ and Marco wasn't lost enough to think the sight of his– his _hands–_ would be good for him. 

So he waited. Continued to breathe, carefully, slowly. Placed both hands over his new ribcage to feel as it rose and fell. 

(Carefully ignored how Jozu moved to shadow Thatch from him, his voice a low, indistinguishable murmur layered over the high, panicked pitch of Thatch’s voice and the rumbling tenor of Whitebeard’s.) 

All sound around him was very quickly devolving into a frenzied, constant hum. A frequent buzz in the background instead of individual voices, or waves, or wind– The rough pad of a finger brushed Marco’s cheek and he couldn't help the way he flinched violently– nor the way he leaned in. “Can you hear me, Marco?” Whitebeard asked, barely distinguishable from the sheer _everything–_ and for the life of him, Marco had no idea why that would be the first question asked of him– “We need to get some clothes on you. Can you stand?” 

_Clothes?_ Marco blinked uselessly, head spinning. _Why on Earth would he ever need clothes––_

“You have skin, Marco,” that finger slowly brushed against his head, pushing rough-soft-long _something_ off his face. The brief pressure of it left Marco momentarily dumbstruck. Left him chasing after contact like a starving man, an uncontrolled sound of distress choking out of him as it withdrew. “Human skin and bones. Limbs. Can you feel the cold, yet?” He couldn't. He hadn't felt the cold in years, so many years, why did that _matter–_ “I'm going to pick you up, now.” 

Marco’s body jerked, his world shifting. Touch slowly becoming familiar settled comfortingly underneath him, supporting his slight weight with a single arm. He flailed out a hand trying to steady himself and only managed to make a distressed chirping noise when his _wing–skin–wrist, human wrist––_ thumped awkwardly against Whitebeard’s coat still wrapped around him. “Shh, it’s okay,” Whitebeard murmured. “Just stay still. I’ve got you, son.” 

Newgate was there. Newgate was there and undeniably warm. Recognizable hands and rough palms, thick fingers stroking through Marco’s feathers. Newgate was strong. Newgate knew many things Marco did not, or at least did not anymore. 

Marco did not know this. Did not recognize, did not _understand_ —

It was too much, and everything quietly became obsolete in the fuzzy edges of his thoughts.

* * *

* * *

Newgate refused to let go even as he sat down on what Marco could distantly recognize as his cot– hearing the whinny creaks of the wood protesting under the human’s much more substantial weight. Kept one arm steady and warm curved around Marco’s back while the other reached over his head for something unseen. “I’m going to put one of my shirts on you, Marco. Is that okay?” Marco just stared up at him, eyes far away and hazy. Whitebeard gently tapped a knuckle against Marco’s cheek. It was a move he had quickly grown used to, rubbing the shorter feathers around Marco’s cheek where he struggled to reach– even now, in human form, dazed and most likely dissociating, he responded welcomingly to the human’s touch.

“Marco,” Whitebeard rumbled. He had to fight not to melt at the sheer amount of trust the action spoke to him. Even in the state he was in, he leaned openly into Whitebeard’s touch. “Marco. Can you still hear me, son?”

There wasn’t a response. Marco’s eyes were still so, so _blue_ when framed into a human face. Blinking up at him like a patient waking up from a coma. 

Slowly, delicately, Whitebeard tugged at his coat until the fabric pooled down around Marco’s stomach. The glance was enough to confirm Marco’s inherent health– living up to his namesake with a tanned expanse of clear skin and easy muscle where his habits should have left his body a wasteland. Whitebeard didn't waste time to think about it. He had a shirt and a bird to wrangle. Marco wasn’t exactly up to pitching much of a fit, though. Whitebeard doubted he would– there was little he found that he could not do to Marco even if he was fully cognizant. 

It scared him, sometimes. 

(All the time. Where was the limit? The boundary? The threshold? Where was the line he could cross, that he could count on Marco to tell him to _stop?_

He wasn't sure if there _was_ one, and that was _terrifying.)_

Whitebeard sat down on the cot, careful to nudge Marco’s new legs out of the way. Maneuvering his first-mate like a doll. The listlessness was so much more pronounced. Even compared to how Marco had been when Whitebeard first saw him, gliding low without the slightest glimmer of life in his eyes– right now there was nothing to help. Nothing to try. 

He hoped Marco fell asleep, if only for the chance that he’d be more awake the second time around. 

“How is he?” He looked up to meet Jozu’s eyes. The man’s face didn't give anything away, still stonily set and blank, but there was no mistaking the way his eyes carefully scanned over Marco’s motionless body. Whitebeard could see his mouth just barely tilt downward, shoulders slumping the tiniest increments when his presence gained no reaction. He doubted Marco was even aware Jozu was there, much less spoken. “That bad?” 

“How is Thatch?” Whitebeard asked instead. 

Jozu carefully stepped into the room, lumbering form surprisingly silent as he delicately settled into the large chair by Whitebeard’s desk. “Kid’s spooked,” He admitted quietly. “Took off into the kitchen soon as he was breathing again. His eye is fine, but the marine caught the side of his face. Not too deep. Looked like he forgot he was even bleeding.” His eyes hadn’t left Marco’s face. Tracing newly formed cheekbones and a strong jawline, fluffy blond hair. 

Dark eyes finally met Whitebeard’s own. Brooding and unreadable. “What exactly is he, Newgate?” 

Neither of them would blink away first, and risk losing whatever foothold they had gained. No matter that they weren't sure yet what they were reaching for. 

“I don’t know.”

“...You don't know.” 

“Marco doesn't know either.” 

It hadn't been said. There was no easy way to ask someone, what bones and flesh built out of them. Whitebeard genuinely doubted that Marco knew what he was. Whether he was a human, a phoenix, or something else entirely. Could a human live so long, as Marco did, to forget swallowing a devil fruit? To forget their name, their voice– Marco had reacted as if he had never seen his own hands before. Maybe he really hadn’t. 

Blue eyes remained empty and dull. His pupils were unresponsive to the movement around them. Whitebeard had anchored his palm over his first-mate’s ribs if only to feel that he was still breathing. 

“Don't ask him,” He warned quietly. 

A testament of Jozu’s steady nature– his newest son just nodded once. Curt, firm. As if there was no other reasonable option– and maybe there wasn't. They were young men yet, though not always in flesh. “I’ll keep an eye on the brat,” Jozu stood and calmly reached for the door. “Tell me when he wakes up.” 

Whitebeard smiled. He really had picked some golden apples so far, hadn't he? “Of course.” 

The door slid shut, and Whitebeard began to hum an old shanty. 

Maybe Marco would wake up if it was old enough for him to recognize it. 

* * *

He wasn't sure how many hours had passed, without change. Marco was still unresponsive, and all that Whitebeard had managed to do in the meantime had been to tuck his bird in and continue to hum as he poked through the meager books he had. Even Jozu had eventually settled elsewhere on the ship. While his newer son had been remarkably quiet, there was no fooling the way his haki caught him pacing occasionally behind the door, practically pulsing with uncertainty. Thatch, still buried in the kitchens, carried energy barely any less frantic than when he had entered, however long ago. 

This wasn't working. 

Whitebeard sighed and tossed the book back onto his desk. “Rise and shine, son,” he mumbled to himself. Marco’s hair was surprisingly soft under his touch, bright and golden as his tail feathers. “Haven't you slept enough?”

There was no response, of course. It didn't make the disappointment any easier. (or the worry, or the concern, or the constant, ever and all-consuming sadness–) 

The door nearly slammed off its hinges banging open and Whitebeard almost sent both him and Marco toppling off the bed jumping. 

Thatch didn't even seem to notice. Eyes set and jaw grit, the boy was too busy struggling to handle what looked like a massive bowl of–

“Is that rice porridge?” He asked, bewildered.

Thatch nearly flung the dish straight into the ceiling with how hard he startled. “N-Newgate!” He sputtered. His eyes were so wide compared to the fixated determination burning in them barely a minute ago that Whitebeard couldn’t help the laugh that shook out of him. “How long have you– I thought–” 

“Easy, boy, you’re going to burn yourself!” 

“GAH!” The porridge– and it definitely _was_ porridge, now that he could see it better once Thatch had practically thrown it onto his desk. Richly Fragrant and light gold, still steaming in it’s chipped bowl. “Oh, _ow,_ okay–” the boy shook out his hands violently as if trying to shake the mild burns off his palms. 

Whitebeard just watched as he blew on them lightly. “You alright?” He asked, unable to even try to hide his amusement at the display. 

“I wasn’t stealing!” Thatch blurted out instead. 

Whitebeard blinked. 

Thatch’s face flashed through a complicated handful of expressions before settling on anger. Whitebeard was starting to think that just happened to be his default. “It’s not for me!” He snapped, “I–I used your stuff, but it’s not for me. It’s– I–” 

_Oh,_ Whitebeard realized, _I am going to have to ask Marco where exactly he found Thatch, and with who._ “It’s for Marco, isn’t it?” He asked gently. Thatch jerked back, cheeks coloring violently and Whitebeard smiled at him. “Thank you, son. That’s very kind of you.” _Not that I think Marco will eat it, even if he wakes up. I’ve yet to see him eat anything._ Or drink anything, for that matter— but he wasn’t about to be the one to ask. Before, he had thought maybe Marco’s body just wasn’t one that could handle water. 

(A blue bird, slowly gliding down towards the ocean. Tail feathers waving like the arc of a comet— spiraling straight down into the waves.)

No, he wasn’t about to give Marco any water. 

“Bring it here, please. Why don’t you see if he’ll take some?” Marco still hadn’t yet done more than blink and breathe. But whitebeard could hold out hope. He could do it forever. 

Thatch froze. Slowly stepped forward, the soup back in his hands, only to hesitate at the phoenix’s bedside. “...he’s… is he asleep?” He whispered nervously. “His eyes are open, but…” 

The captain couldn’t help himself from carefully brushing Marco’s hair back out of his face, better revealing dim blue eyes. “He’s still a bit out of it,” he warned, “But it never hurts to say hi. I’m sure he’ll thank you once he’s better.” Thatch frowned, shifting uncomfortably. He seemed just as out of his depth as Jozu tried to hide, unable to fully connect the Marco laying by Whitebeard’s side to the bird he had begrudgingly begun to like. So lost in his misgivings that he forgot to even be wary of Whitebeard himself. 

Whitebeard didn't mention it. It was nice to see the teenager not flinch away from him or lash out. “Would you like to try?” He asked. 

A long moment, then a nod. Whitebeard carefully didn't offer to hold the bowl for him as the boy climbed into the bed. His every movement was slow and cautious as he knelt beside Marco. Even cooling, Whitebeard could still feel the warmth radiating from the dish when he delicately settled it on Marco’s stomach over the blankets. “I won't spill it,” Thatch murmured. 

“I know you won't.” He hid a smile to see Thatch’s ears tint red. 

They were both quiet for a while. The only sound in the room was the clink of the spoon against the bowl. 

“I don't know how to help,” Thatch eventually whispered. For a second, Whitebeard wasn't sure he was even meant to hear it– but Thatch looked up from the bowl and met his eyes with an expression so _lost_ he could feel his chest constrict. “How am I supposed to pay him back?” His hands tightened around the rim of the bowl. “He saved my life– I– I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that.” 

Whitebeard wasn't exactly sure how to respond. Unsure how Thatch would react to anything he could have said, to any sort of reassurance. Such an angry teenager, so full of spite and furious persistence; still a child just trying to process a body made in his name. It wasn't a feeling he had ever been able to forget himself... 

_No, that’s not right. Marco is alive. They're both right here, home._

“Sometimes there isn't anything you can do,” He said instead. “I can only tell you that Marco wouldn't be happy, to hear you say he only helped you for something in return.” Unhappy wasn't the right word– there wasn't one that seemed to properly fit. But even in the time he had spent with the phoenix he doubted Marco would be eager to hear Thatch was trying to “make it up to him” for saving his life. He doubted Marco wanted anything, honestly– beyond no longer being bored. 

Dark eyes laid downcast. Thatch’s shoulders weren't held so high anymore, but he wasn't meeting Whitebeard’s eyes anymore. He kept his gaze pinned to the soup, still steaming on Marco’s prone body. “I just– shit!” He jumped, barely catching the porridge in time to avoid it splashing all over them as Marco suddenly jerked. 

Whitebeard’s breath caught. His head snapped up, catching on glowing blues as Marco’s eyes finally, _finally_ seemed to come to life right in front of them. Sluggishly taking in the two humans sitting by him. 

“You’re awake!” Thatch gasped. 

Deep cerulean settled on Thatch, on Whitebeard, steady as the ocean was constant– _“...A-awa’e?”_ He croaked. 

Whitebeard couldn't help it. He didn't even try– just burst out laughing hard enough for the ship to shake under their feet. He barely registered that he was moving, until Marco was half-sprawled across his knee, tucked easily into his arms. “Good morning, son,” He murmured. Marco was still blinking dazedly when he carefully pulled him back enough to see him properly, stare roving shamelessly over the clearing haze in his first mate’s face. “How do you feel?” 

Marco’s mouth opened and closed, throat working awkwardly as he tried to speak. All that came out was a strangled noise that sounded vaguely like _“Newgate”_ , choked out and near indecipherable. He could feel Thatch’s hands press into the tops of his knees as the boy carefully crept closer, every little move screaming uncertainty. 

“Can he not talk?” His voice was still pitched oddly, lingering surprise and nervousness coloring his tone. “Do you– oh, shit, the–” Marco’s eyes widened slightly when the rice bowl was shoved under his nose. “–Do you want– rice– _hungry?!”_ Thatch blurted out, almost yelling with it– and shrieked when the door slammed open again to reveal Jozu. 

The human stilled in his tracks, blinking back at Marco as if he had any right to look as taken aback as Marco felt. “Oh, he’s awake.” 

“Can you speak?” Whitebeard asked, cutting off whatever cursing thatch was about to say, “anything now. Try again, for me please.” 

A frustrated expression crossed Marco’s face. It was so openly annoyed that every human in the room was taken aback— left staring in startled silence as Marco hummed quietly, working his jaw slowly as if to test his voice. 

“N-New-ga’e,” The words were weak and weirdly airy. Fluctuating oddly on vowels and emphasis. “Newgate,” he said again, more firmly. “...name…. And I am… Marco…” 

Thatch looked about ready to fling the food into the air if Jozu hadn’t instinctively snatched it from him. “Don’t tell me his memory got worse!” The glare he got for it was fierce and unexpected enough to make him duck. 

Marco hummed again, louder this time. The longer he tried, Adam’s apple working around every motion, the more clear his voice was. “Words wrong,” he eventually said. “Differen’.” His hand slid out of the blankets and he froze for a moment at the sight of it. Whitebeard held his breath. “...hand.”

“...yes,” the captain started hesitantly, “you have hands.” 

Thatch and Jozu watched, gazes wary. Marco didn't even notice. The stares refused to register, all his attention rapidly fixating onto his hands. Onto the wrist at their base, the arm outstretched, the shoulder connecting– 

The audible smack of Marco’s hands flying to his face made Thatch wince. “I am– not human,” He managed to force out. “What– How am–” Nails, on his skin. Stubble, hair– smooth cheekbones and eyebrows–hair– where were his _feathers–_ _“I am not human,”_ he said desperately. 

Hands bit into his shoulders, burning straight through the cloth, and Marco flinched so violently that he tore thin lines of blue down the side of his head. Cool flames licked up against his fingertips. He gasped loudly, not even reacting as Whitebeard tore his hands down and away from his face even as he desperately tried to touch the fire in the corner of his vision. “I am–?” He squeaked. He wasn't even sure what he was trying to say. 

“You need to calm down, Marco.” 

_He couldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't._

(It rose in him, freezing hot and searing cold and all too much, to fit into that tiny space he kept in his chest– spilling over the top, bursting through the seams, ripping him apart from the inside in a flood where he had always been a drought–) 

He didn't want to be here. Didn't want to be this– didn't want this form, these limbs, this _body–_ where were his flames, the wind under his wings? He needed to be _else–_

_“What am I?”_ He whispered, and was lost in a blaze. 

Whitebeard stared wordlessly down at the phoenix sprawled half in his lap. It took him a long minute to even be able to move, tugging delicately at his shirt until Marco’s beak poked free of the fabric. Thatch and Jozu hadn't said a word yet. He was starting to think they never would. 

“...We’ll talk about this later,” He decided quietly. He didn't even need to look up, for his newer crew to leave them alone– casting a last, unreadable glance through a shutting door. Marco barely twitched when he carefully drew him from the nest of his shirt. Barely made a noise when large fingers gently untangled talons and feathers from thread and hemming. 

_He only just woke up._

Marco made a subdued chirp, trilling low in his throat as Whitebeard ran a soothing hand down his flank. Even returned to his “true” form, (and was it really, when Marco’s memory was truly so unreliable? When he had forgotten his name, his body, and all its limits– what was the “original”? What was the “truth”? The only one who could answer had forgotten it all, and Whitebeard wasn't entirely sure the memories would ever come back in any measure.) Marco had drifted fast and hard right back into a dissociative shock so strong Whitebeard doubted he would be heard. 

He just sat there. Returned to exactly how he had sat just hours ago, silent and all too aware of how Marco’s eyes refused to see him. 


	4. Faulty Stitching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some attempts are made and a few are even successful!

They weren't talking about what had happened. 

Even Thatch looked more than a little wrong-footed. Attention constantly returning towards Whitebeard’s captain’s quarters. Always the slightest bit less hopeful, when neither a phoenix nor a blond man walked out. Newgate himself had yet to actually leave Marco’s side beyond an hour to check their course. 

Jozu was just waiting for something to give. He was pretty certain where the lines were going to snap, too. 

“Hey,” He looked down, meeting Thatch’s eyes just in time to catch his hand darting back from where it had reached out to tug on his shirt. The teenager shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. _Still such a child. I could almost envy it._ “I– augh, fuck, what does Marco like to eat?” 

_...Eat?_

“...I don't know, kid.” How was he supposed to know that? Marco didn't even react to most things, and when he did it was almost never in a good way. The phoenix’s face always seemed to spasm when he tried, as if the muscles themselves were trying to remember how to move. “Marco doesn’t really eat a lot.” He didn't join them for any meals, and Jozu never really saw any differences in the stocks they kept beyond what he and Newgate ate. 

Come to think of it, he had never actually seen Marco eat at all, had he?

It was something he really wondered about. Marco didn't drink, or eat, or sleep– and Newgate never really said a thing. He had just automatically assumed it was something normal and didn't really think twice about it. Looking back on it now, he was well aware he was falling short. His crew, at least partially, was now his responsibility. Regardless of that fact that Marco _seemed_ fine. He moved without the hindrance he would see in exhaustion or hunger. No sagging limbs or exposed ribs, no dark circles under his eyes. Marco may have been a bird, but Jozu wasn't going to miss obvious signs like that. 

“You don't know?” 

There just wasn't really anything to notice. “I don't.”

His one-note answers weren't doing much to assuage whatever worries Thatch had now. The boy didn't even blow up over being called a kid this time, his eyes far away from where he aimed them at the floorboards. “...I’m sure he has to have been eating something,” He eventually protested, “Everything has to eat. Maybe he’s just a picky eater.” It was kind of doubtful, but the longer Thatch spoke the more fire began to relight in his gaze. Jozu wasn't about to stop him, as long as nothing got burnt down or destroyed. “Do you think he’ll eat it if I make something he likes?” 

“I told you, I don't know what he likes.” 

Thatch didn't seem to even hear him. He pumped a fist in the air, hurriedly rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. “Alright! I’m going to start dealing with the meals then. You guys suck at cooking anyway, do you know how to do anything besides heat up canned soup?” 

“Hey,”

“–I mean really, for pirates you guys are kinda pathetic.” Jozu rose an eyebrow and Thatch finally paused, cheeks turning ruddy. “...Ah… Sorry, I guess. But it’s true. So I'm going to take over, since I'm clearly much more capable in the kitchen than you or Newgate, and Marco is a bird. Bird-man. You can count on me!” With that, he turned and trotted right back off into the kitchen, leaving Jozu standing by the rail and speechless. 

Did he even hear a word I said?

Not that it mattered, he supposed. Cooking wasn't something he'd stop Thatch from doing if he really wanted to. It wasn't as if the kid was wrong, calling his and Newgate’s efforts for what they were. If it kept him out of trouble and gave them a decent meal Jozu was all for it. 

(Besides, he wasn't mistaking the hesitant and lost look in Thatch’s expression. That little crease in his brow, the tiny rigid clench of his jaw– he highly doubted Marco had any actual thought process behind saving Thatch beyond instinctual impulse, but the kid clearly didn't feel that way. Maybe he could work it out like this, over the stove. Get that restless energy out of him and into something useful, something that wasn't pacing and angry.)

(Maybe Marco would finally eat something.)

Whatever. It wasn't his problem. He had better things to do than worry about his weird little ramshackle crew. Things like staring at the ocean, or hitting something durable. 

* * *

They needed to get a doctor. 

Maybe Whitebeard had been avoiding it. Maybe he had honestly forgotten that was a necessity. Maybe he got complacent when one son could turn to invulnerable diamond and the other could heal instantly from any wound. 

Maybe he had needed a “normal” human like Thatch to come along and remind him of just how human they all were. 

“Marco can't help us find the next island the way he is,” He said. Jozu was not the type to ever jump at anything, but he could still see the way his crewmate went still. “Normally I just leave it up to him where we end up, but we need to find a doctor.” 

Shallow it may be, Newgate wasn't comfortable with the large swatches of bandages hiding Thatch’s shadowed face away. Nor did he like the way Marco got so easily lost no matter where he was– no matter whether he was even moving or not– he had mostly left the phoenix be, knowing he was almost always within sight, but in light of recent events he was starting to think maybe there was more wrong than he understood. 

(He could understand pain, and shackles, and blood. He knew tears enough to always taste them, on the back of his tongue. He knew bullet wounds and stabbings and broken bones. But Marco wasn’t _there,_ behind those blue eyes. Sometimes he wondered if anything beat under his feathers at all.)

(He would never admit it, but actually seeing Marco bleed had been almost relieving.) 

That left it up to Newgate and Jozu to figure out a course to find a doctor. Hopefully a good one. Hopefully one that would stay, when their work was done. Newgate doubted Marco was involved enough in the islands he passed over to give them any hints even if he was lucid– but it was nothing he hadn't dealt with before!

Maybe it’d be easier if he went and caused some havoc. Who knew, maybe if he got put in the news again he could somehow shoehorn in a request for a doctor. _Everything is worth a try, if it may help! Besides, Jozu is looking a little restless._

He carefully moved his hand, trying to pet the dim little flume of golden flames trailing down Marco’s nape. “We’ll be heading out, Marco,” He said quietly. There was no response, of course. He hadn't expected one. Marco hadn't been able to meet his eyes since he transformed. It was no less terrible, seeing his first mate so limp and desolate. 

Whitebeard held back a sigh and rubbed gently at the cool downy feathers around Marco’s cheeks. “Sleep well, son. We’ll be back soon.” Hopefully with a doctor. Or at least a request for one. 

They’d figure it out. Marco was strong and smart and resilient as all hell. Whitebeard couldn't have chosen a better first mate, even one still learning ( _relearning,_ he was starting to expect) to be human. Even one as stubborn as Marco. _Especially_ one as stubborn as Marco. 

Blue feathers seemed to brighten, just the tiniest bit. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but Newgate still smiled even as he left his ship for the nearest marine base. 

* * *

“Extra! Extra! Half the price– new pirate captain Whitebeard sweeps marine base and leaves a message for all to see! What could this mean?! Is this pirate looking to expand his crew?! More coming!” 

* * *

Bay wasn’t exactly sure where she was supposed to go with this. The picture in front of her showed that Newgate’s first mate didn't have any outstanding issues that should have prevented him from walking– even without touching she could see the clearly defined and healthy muscle in his core and legs. No marks of surgery or physical trauma present. By all means, he was in perfect, almost outstanding health. 

At least Thatch had made _sense._ There had been an injury, and she had bandaged it. Blood and skin and stitches. A boy in pain, and her hands to fix him. 

But _this?_

“I’m not sure I understand why I’m here.” 

The crew shifted around her. For such large, muscled men, they were remarkably sheepish when faced with her gaze. “Marco has never walked before,” Newgate admitted. “Well, he has, most likely– but unless he blanked it out, or it was… too long ago.” 

She gave him the most incredulous look she could. It was only slightly disappointing that he didn't physically wilt under the weight of it, choosing instead to laugh quietly. “He doesn't remember.” 

“Marco is very, very old.” 

That made no sense. 

The teenager carefully edged closer, setting a tray of fruit onto the desk to her left. He wasn't meeting her eyes, looking instead at Marco, but it was obvious by how he wrangled his hands, cheeks heating, that he wanted her attention. “Marco is a bird,” He spoke up. It was adorably awkward, seeing this street rat trying to be polite, haltingly as it was. “He hasn’t been human long enough to know how to move like one.” 

That made even less sense to her, but neither Newgate nor the stoic man had spoken up to dispute him. Stranger things have happened on the Grandline, but… 

Bay frowned. Glanced back at Marco, scanning over unseeing, unfocused blue eyes. “He doesn't exactly look much like a bird, boy.” 

“Yeah, that’s the whole problem.” 

Wasn't that just the crux of it all. 

Bay stared for a moment longer. Looked between the men around her, from Thatch’s badly hidden hopeful glances to Jozu’s unwavering cool frown, to Newgate’s soft-eyed gaze, directed down at a situation she should probably take as a joke. 

_Stranger things have happened on the Grand Line._

She turned to Newgate. “Tell me about his symptoms.” 

* * *

Marco woke up without a problem. The world was a little fuzzy, and his head hurt enough to be dizzyingly confusing, but he was ‘awake’. 

Awake, and in the right body. 

Awake, and there was a new human in front of him. 

“Hey,” The new human– _weird, they looked weird, why does it look so different from Newgate, and Jozu, and even Thatch–_ their hands rose up in a placating motion he saw Newgate do sometimes to Thatch. “Hey, My name is Whitey Bay. I'm here to help, okay? I’m a friend.” 

Marco stared. 

Whitey Bay frowned at him. “Uh... Can you talk? I need to know if… Goddammit, they said you could talk, was this really just a–” 

“What are you?” Marco croaked, making them jump. 

“W...what.”

His wings were pinned down by something heavy, and warm. Bay leaned forward slowly when he began to struggle out of them, twisting his neck to try and pry off the– blankets, he realized. I’m still in the infirmary room– Body freed, he awkwardly pulled himself up onto the bed closer to them. “What are you,” He asked again. Bay thankfully didn't lean away when he craned his head forward, squinting at them. “You do not… look right? What is _that?”_

Whitey Bay froze. Their face did a weird twist, like the ones Thatch did when Newgate did something stupid. “You mean my _boobs?”_ she asked. “You live with a massive giant of a man, a man who can turn into diamonds and you– have you ever seen a human woman before?” 

The word was vaguely familiar. The only humans he usually saw were human men with guns or the weird ones with bubbled heads and crowds of dirty chained humans. 

“...Maybe?” 

Whitey Bay pinched her nose, slowly letting out a low hiss of air. “...Okay. Okay, they did warn me.” They straightened abruptly, almost startling Marco. “Let’s try that again. Hello, Marco, My name is Whitey Bay. call me Bay, I’m a woman and use she and her instead of he and him. My body is visibly different from your crewmates’. Any questions?” She did the weird smiling face at him, pulled strangely as if it hurt. Marco decided that isn't the kind of question she wanted from him. 

“Why are you… here? With me?” He tilted his head. “To be a pirate?” To his confusion, she only scoffed and waved a hand, as if shooing away bugs. “Not… to be a pirate?” 

“I’m a doctor, buddy. I’m here to help _you,_ not to be a pirate.” 

That was only _more_ confusing. “Do I need help?” 

She paused for a moment, teeth nibbling into her bottom lip. “Oh boy, they really weren't kidding,” He heard her mutter before she was again smiling brightly at him. “Yes, you could say that.” He… he did. What– “I heard you had a bit of an accident, recently. People normally don’t have a breakdown and go into a dissociative state at the sight of their own body, you know.” 

Marco had no idea what most of those words meant, and it showed clearly on his face. Bay went quiet for a moment, staring at him as if she wasn't entirely sure what she was doing either. “Why did you panic when you saw your hands?” She hesitantly asked. 

He didn't answer right away. Wasn't entirely sure what to even say– his brain immediately darted to an impulsive response of _what hands?_ Before he could even think to actually answer. 

Right, his hands. His human hands. 

Marco shuffled in place just to feel the familiar weight of his wings folded to his back. 

“They were not mine,” He finally admitted. Quiet, as if he was embarrassed. Like a child realizing they had nothing to be afraid of, and he knew he didn’t– and yet– “I looked at them, and they were not mine.” 

Bay nodded. “Yeah, I figured that was the case.” Marco squinted at her, unsure why she even asked if she already knew– “Now that you’ve had some time to process, want to give it another go?”  
  


He couldn't help it. He physically recoiled, feathers pressing flat and eyes wide. Bay immediately leaned back, hands raising and he hissed aloud. “Okay, you don't want to. Why not?” 

_Why not– ?!_

“Why would I want to be human?” He blurted out. She gave him a weird look but there was no taking it back now. “I have been a phoenix forever.” Almost forever. Forever was just what he remembered, and what he remembered stretched, and stretched, and stretched– 

“You wouldn't be attacked on sight, probably,” Bay pointed out. Her legs crossed, the movement casual and easy. “You wouldn't stand out. Just another human, with Newgate.” No calm, so collected, as if she hadn't made Marco’s breathing pick up with a handful of words. “Maybe you could actually talk to and touch people.” 

_I don't want that. I can't remember ever wanting that. Why would she use that to argue? That’s terrible. This is terrible._

(Newgate’s hands were so gentle, on his feathers. Fingers combing through them as if he was worried they’d snap under his touch. Jozu’s sparkly shoulder, under his talons. Thatch, following after him and ducking behind barrels and corners when he turned, just to poke at his tail feathers. So careful. So warm. Always a light pressure that made something in him ache–)

_I don't… I don't want to be human._

“You should at least try,” Bay coaxed, “I’ll be right here. I will help you.” 

“Okay,” Marco whispered, “We can try.” 

* * *

“Remember, Marco, you can't stray too far,” Bay said. Marco blinked dazedly at her. He was still reduced to all but hanging off of Jozu’s arm, unsteady legs struggling to keep him balanced properly. “If you get separated from us, or need a break, just land from someplace away from the crowds to sit until one of us can come get you, okay?” 

“...okay,” he said, and when he slowly pulled away and managed a handful of decreasingly wobbly steps Newgate gave him one of those smiles that made him glow with warmth. 

It was hard just to follow after his humans. Even after hours trying to practice, under Bay’s careful eye, Marco was still shaky on his feet. Human legs were just so— unnaturally _long_. Weird and straight and not at all taloned. How the hell was he supposed to stay upright without claws to anchor himself? Toes were a pale comparison. He had fallen enough times that the brief blinding flash of blue, as whatever scrapes and bumps he gained falling over, stopped giving him pause. 

He didn't even want to acknowledge the fabric clinging to his body. Cinched at the waist with more fabric, rolled up at his shins with more fabric, folded at his elbows with _more fabric–_

If Newgate was going to ask him to keep joining them on islands, he was going to get more clothes that weren't so long he had to pull them up. So much material against his skin was so uncomfortable. 

(Where do humans get clothes? Did he need the green papers? The entire conversation about “money” had flown over his head and never turned back.) 

Healing didn’t help the difficulty in trying to tot after his humans. Not with how fast they all walked, with legs longer than his own. Thatch had already peeled off from their little group, yelling over the noise and gesturing violently at a bundle of strange colorful shapes. Newgate ducked to step into a shop with a name Marco couldn't read, leaving him with Jozu—

—and the man was gone. 

_How did this happen so quickly?_

It was fine. Marco didn’t need supervision, he hadn’t been a child in countless centuries. With his new uncomfortable and grounded human form he easily blended into the crowds of humans wandering around the market, so there wasn’t any need to be on constant lookout. He could just… walk around. Without being bothered. 

He couldn't remember the last time he had ever been able to just walk around, unafraid. In plain view. Without being forced to use passive self-neglect to counter his anxieties. No distant worries about a gun to his head, or chains on his wrists. Just him, unrecognizable among the humans.

(His humans could find their own adventures. Marco couldn't possibly be bored, with the entire world back under his fingertips. Just how long had it all been closed to him?)

Maybe he would find something nice to take back. Something shiny, sparkly, and glimmering that he could tuck among the rest of his unrecognizable little trinkets buried in Newgate’s blankets. Something small enough to not be noticed again, by the human, even if he never said anything about it. 

There was a glint of sunlight, coming out of the alley to his right. 

Marco followed it in without hesitation. 

There was a human, standing in the alley. Broad chested, with a ponytail full of dark hair. Marco’s eyes drew back down as the sunlight flickered again. It was shaped like a sword, held almost delicately in the human’s hand. 

“Hello, good sir,” Oh, he was smiling. That was rare. The sword dug into Marco’s stomach, just enough to prod and not to break. “Do you have any spare cash for this poor soul?” 

He didn't. “If you mean the green papers, no.” Jozu and Newgate had it all–– apparently, Marco wasn't to be trusted with money. Newgate had said he was worried Marco would lose it, somehow. Which wasn't fair. Marco hadn’t ever lost anything physical before. He always knew exactly where everything was on the ship, some papers in his pockets couldn't possibly go missing that quickly. 

“No?” A strange glint entered the human’s eyes. “No wallet?” 

_What the hell is a wallet?_ It must have shown on Marco’s face. Whether it was his confusion or a bold-faced rejection, Marco wasn’t sure– but there was a lot less of that falsetto tone in the man’s voice. “I see. Then I have no need for you, good-day Monsieur!” The blade pressing harder against Marco’s skin was his only real warning. 

“Oh, uh– hold on–”

The human stumbled back, eyes wide, and Marco paused to take stock of everything he had missed. 

Like the sword sticking out of his chest. That was a new one, he hadn't been stabbed by an actual sword in a long time. It was kind of annoying to have it keep moving inside him, though– “Can you stop shaking? That's kind of uncomfortable.” 

“I just _stabbed_ you,” The man sputtered, and Marco shrugged. “No, that’s not– What the _hell_ are you?” 

“Why does every human ask me that? I thought you wanted a wallet?” 

The human was beginning to look alarming white. The kind of pale that Thatch got when Marco allegedly did something wrong or unnatural. Was it about the “wallet”? Was that supposed to be inherent human knowledge? Maybe it was a religion, again. He still hadn't forgotten that one time with that cult and feathered prizes– “You look really pale. Do you need help?” 

The sword twitched in Marco’s gut, adjusting with the man’s grip. He didn't exactly know that expression, but he knew it was one Thatch pulled whenever the teenager thought Marco wasn't looking. “Did you seriously ask me whether I need help? I _just stabbed you.”_

Marco shot a considerate look down at the blade still running him through. _“Stabbing_ me, actually. Newgate says that I have to use present tense if it’s still happening.” It was so frustrating. Why did people bother speaking at all, with so many _rules_ to it? Marco still had trouble with contractions. Things were easier when he was never expected to talk at all. 

(It was so nice, to have a reason to talk. His voice never cracked anymore, his tongue never faltered. Speaking through lips and not a beak took surprising ease to get used to, when there was someone else listening.) 

“That’s…. Really not the issue here.” 

“Then what is? Is it the blood loss?” Humans turned pale due to a lack of blood, didn't they? That’s what Bay had warned him about, that first time Thatch was injured. She said it was important to always watch out for the pallor of the skin. Apparently, humans could change colors. 

(Apparently, he couldn't ask to see a blue human. Apparently, that was bad. Apparently, a blue human was a dead one, unless they were a Fishman. Whatever _that_ was.) 

“No, it’s not the blood loss– actually, perhaps it is the blood loss. Yours. Because you are bleeding out, and also on fire– Sir, I am trying to rob you. You are being mugged. Are you going into shock?” 

Marco had no idea what that meant. Bay had mentioned shock before, back when he had first “woken up” to her there, but he didn't feel like that now. He honestly felt pretty normal if he ignored the sword still tearing up his insides when he breathed in. The human made a choked sound when he poked experimentally at the sword, shaking off the sprouting blue flame when the edge sliced through his finger like butter. “I do not know why you are stabbing me, but can you pull it out?” He could always just step back himself. Maybe that would be easier, considering how the human was only staring at him with eyes bulging. 

Maybe he didn't ask correctly. “I would like if you were not stabbing me,” He continued slowly. He wasn't in any real danger of bleeding out. His flames constantly working replaced his blood as quickly as he lost it. But the wound couldn't close around the sword still impaling him, and he was fairly certain humans didn't have the same amount of blood in their body as he had already bled out onto the blade. 

He stumbled a little when the sword jerked, sliding wetly across his insides. Marco started at the uncomfortable twinge of pain. His hands darted up and wrapped firmly around the blade before he could process himself moving, freezing its progress. 

“What are you _doing?!_ I’m _trying_ to pull it out–” 

“I changed my mind. You stabbed me with it, it is mine now.” 

_“What– That’s–”_

“Marco, what the fuck.” 

Both phoenix and human paused. Marco slowly craned his head back the best he could to meet Jozu’s eyes, quickly recognizing the careful calm of Newgate’s crewmate’s face. “Oh, I have found you.” 

“Marco.” A large hand gestured to the sword still jutting out of Marco’s stomach with an air of almost casual regard. So casual Marco could almost believe it. “We talked about this.” 

_We did, didn't we._ Marco even remembered some of the conversation. Thatch and Bay both had looked very mad. “We did,” He admitted, and with a deft twitch of his wrists shattered the blade into tiny fragments. Jozu didn't flinch, but the new human surprised Marco in not flinching either. If Marco was guessing correctly, he looked more frustrated over his newly broken weapon than anything else. 

(Jozu eyed the man and Marco himself carefully, unnoticed by either. He recognized the glint in Marco’s eye now, having seen it twice before– if Marco wasn't currently still bleeding into the cobblestone he would have left to fetch Newgate.

After all, he doubted Marco himself recognized that he was just as bad about adopting humans into the nest as Newgate was.)

“Sorry about your sword,” Marco said to the new human, nudging the hilt of the blade back until the other numbly took it. “My name is Marco. Do you want to come with us? You can get a new one, I think.”

“He won't need a new sword, Marco, you didn't destroy enough of his for that. Most of it is still _lodged in you,_ you know.” 

“Oh, you’re right. Well, do you want–” 

“...N-No. You can keep it.” 

The man followed them back to the ship, in such a familiar daze that Jozu almost smirked. His captain and first mate had some wildly different methods of recruiting someone. 

* * *

“...Marco. Is that a sword. In your abdomen.” 

“...Sorry, Bay.”

* * *

Thatch was mad at him. 

Marco was bad at recognizing emotions and expressions. He knew that. He wasn't able to deny it even if he pretended– he flat out didn't understand a lot of the looks his humans gave him. The smallest twitch of the eyebrow meant far too many things alone for him to bother. 

But the one expression he had never needed to learn, was anger; and Thatch was _definitely_ mad at him. 

...not that he knew why. The familiarity ended at recognition. 

But the teenager would glare at him when he saw him, and stomp around, and slam doors– and, well, he always did that, but it seemed to be just a touch more violent whenever Marco was within sight. He was honestly getting a little fed up with it. Even his frequent attempts to feed him were more aggressive than normal– just yesterday Thatch slammed a bowl of soup down on the railing so hard the bowl cracked. Marco swore that if he wasn't so diligent on never wasting food he would have just flung it at him. 

He didn't care about that, of course. Thatch was just a little human. His feelings were of no consequence to him. It didn't bother Marco at all, that he wouldn't talk to him, or come near him, or– 

“Why are you mad at me?” He asked. 

Thatch froze. The dishes in his hands dropped back into the sink with a splash. 

Marco slowly moved the now cold plate of pasta in front of him out of the way.

“Did you just ask,” Thatch turned, face unreadable. His hands were still soapy, dripping onto the floorboards. “...Why I’m mad at you?” 

_Is that meant to be a real question?_ “Yes,” Marco answered. “You have been angry lately. Is it not because of me?” _Something I did? Something I did wrong? Where did I mess up this time?_ “I do not remember doing something to hurt you.” He hadn't broken anything of Thatch’s few items. Hadn't insulted him, hadn't hit him– he wasn't eating his food, still, but that was nothing new and this– this was. 

Thatch pulled away from the sink, hands clenched into fists, and Marco sat up straighter. “You’re right,” he hissed, “you haven't don't something to hurt me.” Marco frowned, brow furrowing, and Thatch’s face shuttered for a moment as if he had struck him. “You’ve never actually hurt me. You’ve only ever hurt yourself, haven't you.” 

_...What?_

“I have not hurt myself,” He said slowly. It would be pointless. There was nothing satisfying about stabbing something that healed instantly. It was as fruitless as trying to blow out a bonfire. A waste of energy and time. “I do not understand.” 

“Oh, you don't, do you.” Closer. Closer. 

_Too close,_ Marco’s instincts suddenly screamed, and he was up and out of his chair before even registering himself moving. 

“you know better than this, Marco,” Thatch said, and Marco didn't even get a chance to answer, to scathingly bite out a _“better than what, Thatch–”_ before Thatch was on him, hands tight and painfully _too-much_ on Marco’s skin. He hadn't even registered that he had been trying to step back with every step forward until he couldn't anymore– forced to meet Thatch’s eyes when the human spoke. 

“You would do this even if you couldn't heal, wouldn't you?” He accused, and Marco’s breath stuttered and caught in his throat. “You keep– keep saying that you'll just heal, that you'll be fine, that it doesn't matter–– but that's not it, is it?” Marco grit his teeth. Lashed out, jerked back– but Thatch just kept _pushing,_ kept moving them backward, tripping Marco over his own feet until his shoulders hit the wall and stayed there. “You don't think you matter. I’m starting to think that you never have.” 

Marco couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything but stare, eyes wide as a muscle in Thatch’s jaw jumped, his teeth grinding so loudly with restraint that he could hear it as clear as anything. “Do you wish you couldn't heal, Marco?” he asked, the words trailing into a whisper, and Marco was _frozen_.) “Every time you get hurt, every time you just– just throw yourself in front of a sword, or a bullet, or–” blunt nails dug into Marco’s skin, through his clothes. Neither of them were able to ignore how Marco twitched at the touch. “–You look the most relaxed,” Thatch whispered, “the moment before we have to watch another bullet go through your body.” 

_(Resigned, at peace. Excited. Wouldn’t it be nice, if this time the weapons worked?)_

“You knew how to fight once.” It wasn't a question. Wasn't even close– was barely a statement over a condemnation. Spat out like rotten fruit and spoiled liquor, like– “I don’t need to be as muscled or massive as Jozu or Whitebeard to know that. You _move_ differently, as if you know what’s going to happen but then you just– you just _stop,_ and–” Marco was distantly, quietly _horrified_ to see tears build in the human’s eyes. Uncontrolled and frustrated; teeth through his lip as if it was taking all Thatch’s restraint not to just keep shaking Marco down until his bones rattled out of his body. “You keep saying it doesn’t _matter_ if you know how to fight because you’ll always _heal–_ and you _hate_ that, don't you!”

_Oh,_ Marco thought, and all at once his anger was gone. _You’re scared. You’re scared because I_ hate _myself._

“Thatch, I–”

_“Why do you want to die so much?”_ The question ripped out of Thatch as if it hurt. Marco’s shirt tore under his trembling fingers. “Why do you keep _lying_ to us? This isn't just to protect us, don't fucking keep telling me that–” 

“I’m– I just–” 

Marco wheezed, eyes flying wide as Thatch collided with his midriff with enough strength to force the air out of his lungs. His arms constricted tightly around Marco’s chest, hands fisting into the back of his shirt. 

“Don’t go, Marco,” He whispered. “You shouldn’t have to die just to feel.” 

He… He didn't know how to respond to that. What the hell was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to apologize? To promise he wouldn't? (To lie again?) 

Thatch didn't show any signs of letting go any time soon. 

Marco slowly moved his hands. Circled, wrapped, pressed his palms flat to Thatch’s spine and the other to the back of his head. The touch, as it always did, thrummed intensely. He could feel Thatch’s heartbeat against him like a second song in his chest, pounding so hard the teenager almost felt like he was shaking. 

He had no idea what to say. He had no idea what to do. 

They stood there, motionless, until the others came down for dinner. 


	5. Resolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward Newgate is a pirate, which is all the excuse he bothers with to be openly and affectionately manipulative.

Marco honestly hadn't been too surprised the first time Newgate asked him. Even as powerful and level-headed as he was, Newgate was still a single man trying to sail a ship on unforgiving waters. If he bothered to think about it, asking him made perfect sense. Now that he could read, and words came to him more easily, and his body no longer burned at anything but will, he made what he supposed was an ideal crewmate. He had been there, helping, from the beginning, after all. 

So no, he wasn't surprised. But that didn't mean he was excited about it. 

“Oh, of course,” he said, and when he caught sight of the incredulous expression the words earned him he bared his teeth as widely as his face could. It paled, as always, in comparison to the human’s. Always too awkward, stretched on his face like his skin was being pulled on. Never quite fitting. “Of course not. What we have is temporary, remember?” The words were so light, so teasing, almost– and yet something chilled and bitter writhed in the base of his throat. Like a stone lodged in his airways, choking and cruel. “You’ll all die, and I will go on as I always have.” 

What he had, here, was frivolous. It was born of boredom and a childish, naive, stupid desire to not be alone. Why waste his time pretending that wasn't the truth? 

(He would not let himself pretend. He had crossed so many lines already, staying the way he did. Getting attached the way he did. Nothing would ever have been easy again, the way it was before. The same emptiness was unachievable. Too far from his reach, bogged down in the warm weights of affection and human relationships and… and…

No, he would not join them. He was living on borrowed time as it was. This was a final threshold he would not allow himself to touch.)

Newgate didn't look satisfied with that. Marco didn't care. He just continued to pull that smile on his face, until the captain was far out of sight. 

This was for the best. Marco wasn't going to change his mind. It would do Newgate well to hurry up and accept that.

* * *

“You’ve gotten really close to the crew, you know. Does this mean you'll be staying?” 

* * *

“Vista seems to be getting used to everyone! He was a good pick, you’ve always had such a keen eye, Marco. It would be so useful if you decided to just stay here and keep picking new crewmates!”

* * *

“You look better rested today, Marco! I told you that some real sleep would do you some good. Now that you’ve had some time to sleep on it, would you like to join my crew?” 

* * *

“Thatch has taken to you very strongly. He’ll be really upset when you leave too, I bet. You should just stay here, Marco. What’s a couple years out a millennium, with people who love you?” 

* * *

Marco should have known better than to think Newgate was the sort of human to give up. 

No amount of rejection, refusal, insults, teasing– there wasn't anything he hadn't said that had yet managed to dissuade the pirate. He was only lucky their little “game” had been kept from the eyes of the rest of the crew. Marco wasn't sure he’d stay sane if hundreds of humans were all trying to climb all over him. 

It wasn't as if any of Newgate’s arguments were sound either. Yes, Marco was fond of the crew. How could he not? Many of them he personally chose– all of them, actually. Not a single foot was stepped onto their ship without his express approval, whether it be by a nod or a name. Newgate had always seemed to harbor a keen eye for even the most subtle of expressions Marco made, and never missed a new crewmate the phoenix bore any interest for. Yes, Marco knew he was already considered part of the crew by… most people. His bounty poster declared him a whitebeard regardless of what he thought, and he wasn't about to spend his time to go and politely tell the government that _no, thank you, you got my affiliations wrong, would you please fix that?_

Most of the crew themselves thought he was a Whitebeard. According to some of the deck hands (and of course it had to be the greenhorns, the newbies, the cabin boys that told him before they could realize they weren’t supposed to––) “first mate” was supposed to be a title, of sorts. 

Marco had no idea how he had missed that. 

Not that he knew what it actually meant besides gathering that it was a title. Everyone seemed determined to keep him in the dark, somehow– he wasn't sure if they were even trying. Asking at that point was just needlessly awkward; he didn't need to know what it meant. It was just one word. 

Yes, Marco checked… nearly every box, for an official crew member of the Whitebeards. Did that matter to him? Of course not. He and Newgate knew what he truly was and that was all that mattered in the end. There was nothing, bar his attention, that identified him as a Whitebeard. It wasn't as if he had a sign on his chest saying he was even a pirate, after all– humans were all just presumptuous and nosy. He had been mistaken as Newgate’s parrot more than once, and it was starting to get old. Especially now that he knew what a parrot was. 

A tiny, colorful bird. Did Marco look tiny? Was he dwarfed, in Whitebeard’s hands? He was bigger than Thatch, even through the brat’s growth spurt. His talons were big enough to puncture a grown man like paper. Were humans just stupid? He wasn’t even in full-phoenix form at the moment, sitting on the edge of the railing as he was. The size of his wings and talons alone tended to be enough to make most marines do a double-take before they risked attacking him, especially considering he was near always just watching when they were attacked. No point getting up unless someone needed help, after all. His humans didn't need to be babied. 

Another blade sliced through Marcos' left wing, tearing straight through the flames and snagging into where his humerus should have been and he scowled. “You are _very_ annoying,” He hissed to the marine, sliding off the rail. “I am trying to think.” A kick sent the human screaming over the side of the ship. 

Maybe humans were just stupid. 

Huffing quietly, Marco trotted away from his seat to go and check on the others. His section of the deck was mostly clear of marines, considering most of them had flocked to the heavier hitters of the crew– Jozu, Newgate, and Vista looked perfectly happy brutalizing their share of opponents. 

He let them be, passing with a wave to Vista just to watch how the humans laugh trailed off a little awkwardly. Even weeks after they had picked him up, the other seemed more than a little unnerved by Marco. It was Thatch all over again. Marco was surprised to realize he found that amusing, at first, but now it was just a treat to milk that wariness as much as possible. Maybe it was a bit sadistic, but making others uncomfortable _was_ kind of funny. 

(At least, it was when it was his little group of humans. Marines and strangers being uncomfortable around him was nothing new. Wary eyes, careful steps… that was just how it always was. He honestly wasn't sure why it bothered him so little, to have his motley little crew do the same. 

Something about it just felt a little different. Maybe it was because he wasn't anticipating a knife to his gut– despite that a knife to the gut was exactly how he met two of them. Sometimes your humans stabbing you was just life, he supposed– though Newgate, Jozu, and Bay never seemed very happy about it. Neither did Thatch, though Marco was trying not to think about that. He didn’t want to admit he was avoiding the teenager, after their… fight? He had started flying up the mast as soon as they made eye contact. The irony, unfairly, was not lost on him.) 

Another bullet slammed through Marco’s chest and he stumbled for a moment, wincing as he felt the familiar pain of one of his ribs shattering. It only made him pause a moment, humming absentmindedly as he ripped the mental out of the wound, disinterestedly watching blue lick at his bloodied fingers. _Bullet wounds are always so messy._ It was cleaner now than how guns used to be, at least– and nowhere as messy as something bigger, like explosives. Healing from such blunt force trauma was always so dizzying. 

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't even look up at the sound of rapid footsteps until there was something cold clamped tight around his wrist. 

The nausea was immediate. Disorienting enough to make him stumble. His face twisted in confusion, snapping down to stare at the unassuming hand-cuff locked onto him. It almost felt like the material was sucking all the energy out of him, numbness spreading from where it made contact with his skin to his entire body. 

“Marco? You alright, son?” Whitebeard called from across the deck. He had looked up the moment Marco’s demeanor had shifted. He swung hard, knocking another handful of marines overboard before steadily making his way over to the phoenix. “Marco!”

His hearing was starting to muffle. Eyesight going fuzzy in a familiar way as his hands became less and less recognizable. Marco couldn't feel them. They weren't his. “What?” He asked, and the words sounded strange to his ears. “N...Newgate?” 

A distant whistle of steel, next to his ear. Marco couldn't focus. 

He could focus, however, on how he was suddenly on the floor. Gasping aloud as if breaking the surface of the water, he gaped up at the familiar slope of Whitebeard’s broad back. There was a snapping sound. A sharp crack, a splatter– liquid hit Marco’s hands and knees and he scrambled back, only managing to slip and stumble over the substance with heavy limbs. “W–What–– Newgate–?” 

“Not you too,” he heard, hissing behind him, and Marco strained to look up at Bay’s face swimming before him. “Goddamn it, Newgate, I don’t need to deal with more injuries from sacrificial idiots–” 

_Sacrificial?_ Marco’s head was spinning. _What does she mean– I-I don’t know what happened–_ “B-Bay?” He tried. His voice still sounded like he had swallowed a handful of cotton. “Bay? What… What…?” 

He lurched. Hands settled warm and steady on his back, his arm; carefully keeping his shackled wrist stretched out. “It’s fine, Marco,” Jozu murmured, picking him up easily, “Come on. We need to get the seastone off of you.” 

Marco had no idea what seastone was. He had never heard of it before– but it had _sea_ in the name, and _stone_ for the cuff– “Cut,” He forced out, clawing weakly at Jozu’s arm. “Get– Cut it off.” There was no response. He wiggled a little, trying to get his feet to cooperate and touch the floor. He needed a sword. Needed– “Vista,” _Where was he–_ _“Vista!”_

“I-I’m here.” 

Vista had a sword. Had just gotten a new one– Marco was well aware of exactly how sharp it was. The human still owed him for stabbing him, didn't he? Wasn't that how humans worked– “Cut them off.” Silence followed his order. Stifling and infuriating– Marco could feel his brow twitch. The longer the quiet stretched, the more he seethed, chest filling with boiling heat like a summer storm– _“Cut them off, Vista.”_

“I– I am not going to–” 

_This is not the time. I need to know what happened (Where is Whitebeard, Where is_ Newgate– _) and you will not help me. I will heal. I will heal, I will_ always _heal, I will–_

“Cut them the fuck _off,_ Vista!” Marco snarled, finally kicking out of Jozu’s grip. “It will grow back– I need– _Get them off of me.”_ He reached for the sword, for that sharp flash of metal that blinded him when he stumbled– “If you will not, then I will do it myself–” 

A hand gripped tight, tighter than the cuff, around his forearm. Marco’s vision was still clearing, still struggling to focus– but the pained rage in Jozu’s face was startlingly clear. It froze Marco in place. Left all three of them standing still, amidst the last of the unconscious marines, tense and quiet. 

“...It will heal,” Jozu eventually said. He pulled Marco back towards him, ignoring his momentary struggle to carefully hold his cuffed arm out. “Vista.”

Vista’s eyes bugged out. His hand shook around his blade. “You can't be serious. One of them has to have a key, we can–” 

Marco didn't _care_ about that. It didn't matter. It was just a hand, just a wrist– that was so much less important, _hysterically_ less important– 

(Where the fuck is Whitebeard? Where is Newgate? _What happened to my Captain?)_

_“Cut it off,”_ He snapped, and Vista squeezed his eyes shut and swung.

The pain wasn’t clean. Without quiet, or muted, unlike everything else– it roared through him clearer than his own voice. Splintering through his nerves like searing hot lashes of ice, the familiar stretch of sinew tearing and skin flaying open– 

Jozu carefully let his arm go, shifting to let the phoenix lean against his side. Marco breathed out slowly as the agony settled into something more manageable. 

“I can't believe I’ve cut you up twice,” Vista murmured, sounding sick, “Bay is going to kill us,” and Marco groaned loudly. 

Jozu wouldn't let him go enough to stand on his own feet even as his breathing steadied with every second passing. With the seastone gone, it was slightly easier to process what was going on around him. “Newgate,” He muttered, and could feel it through his whole body when Jozu hummed in agreement. The noise that had initially surrounded them was gone. Marco hadn't been paying attention before, but whatever marines might have been left had already escaped– their ship swaying off into the distance. Marco wasn't sad to see them go. 

The next he blinked, and Jozu was pulling him into Bay’s makeshift little medical cabin, Vista trailing awkwardly behind them. Bay blocked most of his view. She was busy grumbling over some machine, thumping it over the top with her fist when it beeped shrilly at her– and then Marco was freezing, as Thatch popped up from the other side of the largest cot they had with a face full of thunder. 

“Marco!” He shouted. Bay didn't even pay him a glance as he darted past her. “What the hell happened to _you?!”_

“I'm fine–” An empty IV bag smacked against the wall next to the door. 

Bay hadn't even moved to glare at him. “I swear to God, if you say you're fine instead of telling me what’s wrong with you I’ll kill you myself.” To his chagrin, Thatch only nodded furiously. 

Vista raised his hand, partially ducking behind Jozu. “I uh. I cut his arm off.” 

Bay finally looked up. “What.” 

“I–” Another empty IV bag. Marco’s heart rate picked up at the sight of it. Humans weren't supposed to need a lot of those, were they? 

“Bring him here,” She snapped. 

Jozu immediately deposited Marco into the chair by the desk, grabbing onto his arm to stop him when he lunged forward at the sight of Newgate. “You–” Marco was almost reeling with how poisonous his tone was. “Let go, I am not injured, I need to– I–” His breath rushed out of him when Jozu’s other hand snapped up to slam him back down into his seat. 

Bay huffed loudly. “Keep him there, Jozu. He shouldn’t be moving even if he isn't bleeding out on my floor again.” 

“...Easier… Said than done…” 

Marco grit his teeth, practically spitting with fury when Jozu grabbed onto his ankle just in time to avoid being gored. “Goddammit, Marco, of all the times to _actually_ put up a fight–” Wings burst into being and Jozu snapped. _“–Stop it!”_ he roared. Composure cracking, he picked Marco up and bodily wrestled him into a hug, tightly pinning the phoenix down against his front. Marco hissed and thrashed, but there was no leverage to latch onto– every movement only stalling more and more as the bodily contact shocked his body still. “That’s it, calm down.” An almost confused chirp escaped his throat. Jozu carefully shifted to pat his back, steady, calloused palms rubbing circles that bled warmth through the thin fabric directly into Marco’s bones. Goosebumps trailed down his arms stemming from that single point of touch. 

A hesitant nudge. A tap to his feathers, flinching back when they sank below Marco’s skin. Marco stared when smaller hands delicately grabbed his hand. The expression Thatch wore made him _hurt_. “Is he… Are you okay now?” He asked quietly. Marco slowly, shakily relaxed his muscles, unsure when he had gotten so tense. “Please don’t be mad at us.” 

A dark, coiling snake wound tight around Marco’s throat. Hot and deep, like trying to breathe in steam.

( _Oh,_ he realized, _I am ashamed._ ) 

It was _uncomfortable._ Pulled unnaturally warm, unnaturally tight–– His skin lit up, limbs shrinking down into feathers and fire. Jozu barely needed to shift to accommodate the change and just tightened his grip a little, allowing Marco to curl his talons around his diamond-patterned wrist for stability. Thatch was forced to release his hand– now a clump of bright blue primaries, and instead buried his fingers into the smaller coverts near his shoulders. 

The touch was oddly soothing. Warm where skin brushed against where his own should have laid. Warm where fingers carefully gripped and combed through his plumage. Thatch had never tried to touch him, not when he knew Marco was all-too-aware of him. Not when he could be caught. Not so carefully, so confusingly gentle in a way that made Marco’s stomach turn and flutter weirdly against the dread still clogging his arteries––

So much, all at once. It was almost overwhelming. 

“...You can let me go,” He said. Whether it was to Thatch or Jozu or both– it didn't matter. 

“I don't think I will.” Jozu moved to sit in the chair Marco had been in with his first-mate still in his arms. His grip refused to even loosen, expression not twitching as he calmly settled Marco in his lap. Thatch silently stepped closer to keep a hand pinned to Marco’s back, stroking him gently. 

Neither budged. 

Bay stepped in front of them, her hands on her hips. “If you’re done,” She said, “I’ll tell you how he’s doing.” Jozu immediately tightened his grip when Marco craned his neck forward and Bay raised an eyebrow. “You don't need to move, Marco. I can just tell you, and you can come over after, okay?” Her voice had done something weird– fluctuating into a softer tone that Marco recognized but could not identify. “You can see him after. I promise.” 

Humans promised lots of things. Believing in them never got him anywhere.

Thatch’s fingers tightened around his feathers. He didn't move.

Bay took it as a sign to continue. Shoulders slumping, she turned to the machine she had been scanning over when they came in. “These are his vitals. See that spiky little line, Marco? That’s a heartbeat.” Marco just stared and she rolled her eyes. “It's just a recording, I didn't put his heart in the machine. I told you organs aren't supposed to be outside the body, remember? We can't just grow a new one instantly.” Her finger traced the rhythmic little bumps, watching until Marco’s eyes began to follow their pattern. “It’s all the same. Steady. Stable. That means he’s fine.” 

She finally pulled back, stepping back towards the cot– Jozu held him fast, but all that Marco did was shrink in on himself at the sight of Newgate. His captain wasn't conscious. His face pale, his skin pale– broad chest white with bandages. 

“He’s fine,” Bay said again, “So you don't need to worry so much, okay?” 

Worry? He was never worried. Marco hadn't worried in years. He barely even understood what worry felt like anymore. That made no sense. That was nothing but a stupid, useless condolence, something to distract, to confuse– He chirped in alarm when Jozu abruptly stood, carefully putting him down on the chair Bay had been using at Newgate’s bedside... 

His eyes were open. Still golden and gooey, unbelievably soft around the edges in a way Marco was beginning to think was his only real expression. “Hello, son,” He rumbled, and Marco felt the little trilling coo build in his throat without his consent. Broad, familiar, warm, warm, _warm_ hands reached for him and Marco was left blinking, confused when his own hands had moved to take them. He hadn't even registered his own shift. The door clicked shut behind him, quiet and muffled to his ears. “How are you feeling?” 

_Are you trying to make a joke out of me, my captain?_

All at once, he was _furious._

“Why did you do it?” Marco eventually hissed, and for a brief, intense moment _hated_ himself for it. But he couldn’t stop. Not now, not with the words finally struggling free of his throat. “you _knew_ I would heal. You know I would not die, because I have _never_ been _able—“_ he cut himself off, almost choking on his fear. Whitebeard’s entire body, his face, his hands, the curve of his massive back— had all shifted with Marco’s words in a way that left him unreasonably uncomfortable. 

( _Scared,_ he knew, and hated himself all the more for it.) 

“...You were hurt for nothing. I just want to understand why.” 

Even he didn’t know everything. Millennia to see didn’t mean he _understood—_ just that he was there. Just that he knew. Just that he remembered, and remembered, and _remembered,_ and was unable to connect any of it to pieces that made sense; because after a certain point you don’t care to make sense of anything anymore. 

Marco had been alive so long that _caring_ had taken a backseat. Empathy shrugged on a coat, waved goodbye, and drowned in the ocean— and he had been bereft of the ability to _understand_ others long before he stopped trying to talk to them— 

“You needed to know that I would,” Whitebeard rumbled, And Marco finally realized his twisted expression was _fear._ “It was not for nothing. You are not nothing, Marco. I will _always_ come when you need me, my son. Even if you refuse to think you do.” 

Marco’s face shattered. 

Whitebeard instantly moved to sit up, reaching for Marco like a flower facing the sun. Instinctively responding to his first mate’s pain. It took Marco practically climbing into his bed to stop him. He barely stilled when Marco slowly leaned forward, pressing his cheek tightly to a warm hand. 

His breathing was just slightly shaky. Just a little. Just enough to be undeniable, shuddering out of his lungs like a chill. 

“I will never leave,” he promised, nearly choking on it, “I— I will never leave your side again if it is what you want. I’ll stay, I’ll _stay—_ “ that hand shifted, moving to hold Marco instead of being held and Marco bit down on a helpless little sob at how the touch warmed his skin, calloused palms so impossibly gentle where they cradled him. 

Newgate’s eyes were so _soft._ Soft at the corners, where the skin folded into delicate little crow's feet. Soft where his brow loosened and smile lines creased. “That’s not what I want, son,” he murmured, and Marco had no idea how such a powerful man could ever be so unendingly _warm_. 

_I have no idea what you want. If it is not for me to stay, and not for me to go, what am I supposed to do for you?_

“T-then I’ll— learn.” He’d figure something out. He’d make himself indispensable, make himself useful. Turn his ancient bones and blood into something meaningful again, if it meant— “I’ll talk to Bay. I’ll learn how to heal others, too, and I’ll, I can—“ _stop you from bleeding, if you insist on being cut. If I cannot stop you. If this is all I can do, for you, I’ll do it. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything._

For the first time in millennia, tears burned uncomfortably and strange and he shut his eyes tightly. Like a child desperate not to see the dark. It only squeezed them out, sending them trailing down to salt Newgate’s palm; yet the man never flinched nor made to move away. It all only made something in Marco's chest pull tight and painful. Spilling more tears, as if he was leaking. He couldn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop. 

“Don’t do this again,” Marco whispered. 

Newgate's fingers were so kind, against his skin. “No promises.”

* * *

“You want me to _teach_ you?” Bay’s face finally unfroze, seeming to unthaw from its shock as she spoke. “Marco, you’re immortal and self-healing. Is this about–” 

_Don't say it._ “Yes,” He quickly blurted out. Her face shadowed and he rushed to continue, his limbs feeling more awkward than they had in months flailing to reassure her. “I– want to be able to help. I can only heal me.” 

“Marco…” 

_I need you to do this. I need to do this._ “Please,” He asked quietly. She straightened up out of her crouch and he couldn't help the way his eyes darted down to the bags at her feet. They had been packed for days now, before the last attack– “I know it’s a lot.” 

Bay was still frowning at him. Still staring, unblinking, eyes hooded– but there was no malice or irritation yet. Negativity, yes, but Marco had no way to gauge what exactly it was meant for. “It is a lot. You know It’s about time I leave. I never wanted to be a pirate, I can't stay here forever.” 

Marco knew. He was in the same situation himself; of course he knew. There was nothing he was more aware of, at the moment, except for Newgate’s ragged breathing, or the phantom feeling of blood under his fingernails– “Please.” 

_If you teach me, you can leave. Without worrying, because we– I can tell you do. Even I can see it, and you know that. But give me this, this one thing, and I–_

Bay’s finger prodded at his chest, nails sharp for how she had carefully filed them back. “I’ll stay,” She agreed, maybe too easily, “but if you’re going to be a doctor, you better be ready to be a brilliant one. I’m not here to waste time.” 

_You never have been. Did you finally fool yourself into thinking any of this as time wasted?_

“Thank you,” He said instead, and Bay turned to unpack her first duffel bag. 

* * *

“Hey, on the bright side, maybe a background in medicine will give you that propensity to not getting stabbed and ripped to shreds that you seem to be lacking.” 

“I’m not sure if that is funny, yet.” 

“...Marco, you’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

* * *

“Hey, Marco,” Whitebeard began, and Marco was already tilting his head up like a flower towards the sun. Waiting with eyes so electric blue, hands still and steady and open. “Will you join my crew?” 

Blond brows furrowed in confusion, making Marco’s usual expression scrunch up. “Join your–? Pops, I’ve been here for years.” 

He had, and Whitebeard hadn't forgotten a single one. Even if he turned old and senile, he refused to ever forget any of his children– even those centuries older than him. Marco had been there nearly from the start, hadn't he? Always by his side. Always with him, always there, and _yet–_

“You never did give me a straight answer. A thousand “I’ll think about it”’s and a billion “Maybe”’s, but I’ve yet to hear the words, son.” Yet to actually have Marco recognize the position he had always had, since the very beginning. The first mate, the older brother, the _eldest_ brother– Whitebeard’s first, and yet Marco had never stopped to _say it._ “Marco, will you join my crew?” 

He already had, hadn’t he? Marco had been there for over a decade. He checked. He always checked, now. A whole box of used little calendars stacked neatly away under his bed. 

So why were the words still stuck in his throat? 

“I don’t understand,” he finally managed. “You told me before you didn’t want me to stay.” That it wasn’t what he wanted. But Newgate asked Marco to join, and wasn’t that asking him to stay? Was it not the same? How had he screwed up— “you told me you didn’t want me to stay.” 

“I want you to be free, Marco. As all pirates are. Go where you will, as you have always done. All I ask is that when you’ve had enough of flying, or staring at nothing, or refusing to eat or sleep—“

“—I’ll come home,” Marco rushed out. The words sounded terrified, escaping him, rushed and frenzied in a way that he couldn’t connect with his voice, with his brain— “I’ll come home, then. Where else would I go but here?” Nowhere. There was nowhere else. There was only an empty expanse of ocean that would ever greet him with arms so open. But the ocean was cold as it was blue, dark as it was draining— the depths could only take from him. He was beginning to realize that wasn’t a gift, anymore— wasn’t what he wanted. Not now that he had tasted warmth again. Not now that he had felt a touch not aiming to hurt him. Not with the way fingers rubbed warm under the feathers at his cheeks, ruffled his hair, patted his back and shoulders in those brief little human acknowledgments he never knew he _craved—_

Where else was there to go, but to the man who taught him how to be alive again to be able to grieve? 

His mouth opened and closed for a moment as if trying to pry it loose. “What can I—“ he swallowed thickly. “What can I do to convince you?” 

_If words aren’t enough. If staying isn’t enough. What do you need from me?_

_How do I tell you I’ll never leave you again?_

Something undeniable. Something whitebeard— something no one could forget or disregard. Prominent, unignorable— something that branded him, that claimed him as a Whitebeard beyond bounty posters and presence. 

The thought used to terrify him. 

An old threat, one he never forgot. One That has been acted out on him, time and time again, before draining chains and rooms wet enough to wrinkle his feet. Smoldering hot and terrible. Unforgettable, over and over—

But Marco could not be afraid. If he looked, he knew he would find nothing. Nothing on his skin, nothing in his mind— a decade of being unfailingly gentle wasn’t so easily denied. 

“Can I get a tattoo?” He breathed out, and the words awoke something almost overwhelmingly, startlingly excited in him. 

Whitebeard blinked, taken aback. “A— you want a tattoo?” He stared when Marco nodded furiously. “May I ask why?” 

Not a single trace of fear in his body. Barely a twinge of phantom pain, centered between his shoulder blades. “If you won’t believe me, then I’ll just show you. It won’t come off. Not if we do it right, and that will be proof.” Predictably, Whitebeard's face closed off and Marco held his ground, jaw set. “This is what I want.”

“You _want_ this?” 

“I have never wanted anything more.”

“You will be branded for life, Marco. It will _never_ come off, even when we are all long gone.”

“Good.”

“Marco...” they were at an impasse, and Marco wasn’t about to do something foolish like back down. Not when he had an answer. Not when he had a goal. Not when he could have a reminder— not a brand, never a brand— one that would tell everyone, including Whitebeard, who and what he was. A reminder of how he was undeniably human. A reminder of how he was alive to love and be loved. 

“I want this, Newgate. More than anything.” 

_Please let me do this. For both of us._

The fire in his eyes was brighter and hotter than his flames could ever hope to be, and all of Whitebeard's resistance crumbled to ash under it. 

“Alright. You’re a grown man, after all, who am I to stop you?” Despite the lingering hesitation, the disbelief, the captain's tone was lifting with something excited. Something heady, warm with pride that soaked into Marco’s bones and settled. “We can start searching for a tattoo shop immediately.” 

_Immediately. Immediately._

Marco’s face moved before his brain could, and then Whitebeard’s hand snapped out, nearly crashing into the wall in his attempt to steady himself as his eldest, most aloof son smiled so brightly at him. _“Thank you, Pops!”_

He scurried off, unable to wipe the look off his face. It was surprisingly natural to pull, even as rusty as he was— unwavering even as his crewmates leaped out of his way with eyes wide when he charged past for the navigation room. 

He had a parlor to track down. 

* * *

Whitebeard, still standing in place, watched Marco disappear down below deck. He didn’t move until he heard footsteps clamoring up to him. Barry blinking out of his shock, he looked down to meet several wide eyes of his sons. 

(At their front, Thatch looked positively _giddy_.)

“Pops,” Jozu started, voice cutting above the noise, and Whitebeard straightened up to properly face his son. “Marco just smiled.” 

He did, didn’t he. He hadn’t just imagined it. 

A grin of his own split his face, so wide it was nearly painful. “He really did! I’m very proud.” Jozu, his second son, still so composed and calm— nodded and smiled at him and whitebeard’s chest tightened. 

“Get the booze out!” He boomed. His heart was going to explode at this rate, he should call Bay over, from wherever in the GrandLine she was now— “we’re going to _party!”_

* * *

Two boys were currently staring at him. Technically, this was nothing new– but the twin expressions of sheer awe and delight was one Marco was beginning to be resigned to never acclimating to. 

“So, Marco the Phoenix, I presume,” Gold Roger grinned at him, flashing nearly all his teeth. Yet his broad hands didn't stray to his gun, nor a sword. Beyond the pressure of haki, there was no immediate danger. “How’s the old man?” 

Marco couldn't help but smile back, raising his wings high above his head. “He’s on his way. I’m the hello.” He kicked off the railing, soaring up the mast with a single, powerful flap, and chuckled the whole way as Roger’s crew spilled, laughing and chortling with excitement, onto the deck below him. 

“Damn Whitebeards,” Roger cackled, absolutely no edge to his voice, and Marco opened his beak and _sang._ Content to bide his time, spiraling past bullets and playful swipes of swords to sweep random pirates off their feet. 

The warmth of being called one of Newgate’s hadn't yet seemed to fade, even years after he got his mark. He was starting to think it never would. 

He liked that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it; this is the end. 33k of me stabbing marco several times.
> 
> i wrote this last fall!!!!!!!! and spent actually like, basically every waking moment between classes on it until it was done :/ have my blood sweat and tears ✌️🎉 
> 
> extra bits that i didnt end up adding: 
> 
> -Thatch feeding marco cinnamon  
> -more thatch in general, honestly  
> -the origin of Yoi (aka that it was either an accidental noise made by one of the Boys and marco heard it and decided "ah, yes, this is a word. i like it. im going to use it now" and jozu telling him it wasnt a real word did exactly Nothing to stop him-- or, Thatch told it to him purposefully hoping hed catch it so he could tease him and now its just Part of him)  
> -More Ancient English Shenanigans (gotta use my experience somewhere :/ But I made That decision like a week ago, and my finals happened to be a week ago, so you can see how that ended)  
> -More Whitey Bay, Garp, and Roger (including a fight scene) 
> 
> Special thanks to [Majora](https://majoraop.tumblr.com), who was my art partner for this project!! I shrieked when I saw it lmfao, her full piece will be the bonus final chapter (as well as on her blog and Deviantart, linked in this end note and the next chapter's respectively)


	6. Majora's Art for this story!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The artwork done for my by my lovely partner [Majora](https://www.deviantart.com/majorasmasks)! Since it's such a long strip in its entirety it gets its own chapter 🤠🎉🎉

**Author's Note:**

> ~~if it seems rushed at the end thats because it is~~
> 
> i wrote this last fall!!!!!!!! and spent actually like, basically every waking moment between classes on it until it was done :/ have my blood sweat and tears ✌️🎉 
> 
> extra bits that i didnt end up adding: 
> 
> -Thatch feeding marco cinnamon  
> -more thatch in general, honestly  
> -the origin of Yoi (aka that it was either an accidental noise made by one of the Boys and marco heard it and decided "ah, yes, this is a word. i like it. im going to use it now" and jozu telling him it wasnt a real word did exactly Nothing to stop him-- or, Thatch told it to him purposefully hoping hed catch it so he could tease him and now its just Part of him)  
> -More Ancient English Shenanigans (gotta use my experience somewhere :/ But I made That decision like a week ago, and my finals happened to be a week ago, so you can see how that ended)  
> -More Whitey Bay, Garp, and Roger (including a fight scene) 
> 
> Special thanks to [Majora](https://majoraop.tumblr.com), who was my art partner for this project!! I shrieked when I saw it lmfao


End file.
